


somebody loves you

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - A Scandal in Belgravia, Episode Fix-it, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Frustrated John Watson, Frustrated Sherlock, Jealous John Watson, John Is So Done, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Pre-Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Sheetlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock Wearing A Sheet, Sherlock is awkward, Sherlock tries to seduce John, Slow Burn, Some Humor, Some angst, idiots to lovers, ish, it goes about as well as you'd expect, more tags to be added as needed, nothing goes as planned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26272261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Sherlock decides to finally take things to the next level with John. Unfortunately for him, the cock-blocking universe has other plans.This is a fix-it fic of sorts forA Scandal in Belgravia.This story will explore some of the unseen moments, and both John and Sherlock's POVs as Sherlock tries his valiant best to seduce one (1) John Watson amid terrorist intervention, a lying dominatrix, and his own general awkwardness.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 258
Kudos: 343





	1. Murphy’s Law

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a bit since I wrote something 'on the fly,' so here we go again. More tags to be added as I go, I'm sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover by [kettykika78](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kettykika78/pseuds/kettykika78)

When Sherlock decided to seduce John, he could not have anticipated how difficult it would become. How was he to know a man killed by his own boomerang would result in a nearly-nude visit to Buckingham Palace and a dominatrix injecting him with a sedative? Sherlock was a genius, but he wasn’t omniscient. There _were_ limits.

After John spent a week blogging about their recent cases with _ridiculous_ titles, embellishing and romanticizing as was his whim and bringing Sherlock to his wit’s end, the plan formed. John then insulted Sherlock’s ash analysis, something crucial to his work and the forensic community, and it just couldn’t be allowed to continue. 

Something had to change. 

If John insisted on pouring his romanticisms into the recaps of cases better explained scientifically, then Sherlock would just have to reroute those romantic notions, channel them into something else. A relationship seemed like the best path to pursue. They’d been dancing around one another long enough, and Sherlock thought it was high time things progressed to the next step. 

On the day where everything went sideways, Sherlock stood in his bedroom, watching the rising sun drape yellow across the floor and over his feet. After a night of tossing and turning, he finally had his plan and deemed it foolproof. Hands steepled beneath his chin, he pressed his fingers to his bottom lip and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the flat. 

There were the usual creaks and groans of the old structure waking with the sun, and the faint sound of water running in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He frowned, eyes closing tighter, ears straining. 

There it was, a light thud. John, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and setting his feet on the floor. Sherlock, his eyes still shut tight, pictured him with ease, sleep-rumpled and hazy-eyed, his sharp, feral edges softened by that place between dreams and waking. He imagined John stretching his left arm over his head, working out the stiffness of an old injury, maybe slipping a hand under the hem of his shirt and scratching idly at his stomach. In his mind’s eye, John’s skin was a warm strip of gold, paler and less sun-kissed than the rest of him. Sherlock wondered how it might feel to trail his fingertip over that bare expanse. 

His breathing quickened, and he feathered a hand over his own stomach, body warming in sympathy for the fantasy. 

The ceiling carried the groan of John’s floorboards clearly, and Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, his hand falling back to his side. His face flushed, and he breathed deeply to calm the rush of blood heating his skin, listening to John descend the stairs. Frozen in the middle of his bedroom, watching sunlight creep over the floor, Sherlock listened to John entering the bathroom, his footsteps whispering through the thin wall. He relieved himself, flushed the toilet, ran the sink for precisely 45 seconds. More prolonged handwashing than most, but that was John, ever the doctor. 

Sherlock waited with his breath held captive until the tell-tale sound of water hitting the bottom of the tub reached his ears. Sighing out a wavering exhale, he reanimated. It was now or never, and his plan required immediate action.

Spurred into movement, Sherlock slipped out of the clothes he wore for sleeping and pulled a claret-coloured robe over his naked form. He paused to double-check his reflection, grateful that he had brushed his teeth earlier and fixed his hair. Just enough for it to look endearingly sleep-mussed, but not entirely wild. He gathered his courage and slipped out of the bedroom. 

The shower was still running, and Sherlock estimated he had six minutes, give or take, to get into position. John rarely showered longer than a maximum of ten minutes, as efficient in his hygiene routine as he was when stitching a wound or cleaning his gun. He was a man at odds with his own kind nature, a veritable force to be reckoned with. Meticulous and deadly, a heady combination. Sherlock’s pulse picked up in anticipation of his plan’s possible results. If all went smoothly, he hoped to spend another sleepless night, though, hopefully, for entirely different reasons than tossing and turning through perfectionist agony. 

He climbed the stairs on tip-toe, gaining the second floor without stepping on the creaky fourth stair, padding quickly but silently to John’s bedroom door. It was open a crack, and Sherlock pushed inside with ease.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been in John’s room, but it was the first since devising his plan, _Operation Seduce Romantic Flatmate._ OSRF. Not incredibly eloquent, but the name served its purpose. 

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room and looked around with a furrowed brow. Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure how to go about the next step. Eyes falling closed, he consulted his mental checklist. 

    1. _Wait for John to step into the shower -_ **check**
    2. _Dress enticingly, but not in a manner aggressive enough to scare John away_ \- **check**
    3. _Infiltrate John’s room while he is in the shower -_ **check**
    4. _Display self provocatively in John’s room for his viewing pleasure -_ **in progress**
    5. _Profit - **???????**_



Teeth pressing into his bottom lip, nerves twinged by his indecision, Sherlock settled on his original plan: the bed. Automatically provocative, and conveniently placed for potential coital activities, should John be so inclined. Sherlock hoped he would be, but supposed he could be patient if John wanted to hold off for now. But he hoped otherwise. 

Caught in his musings, he nearly missed the sudden silence as the water shut off downstairs, no longer running through the groaning pipes within the walls. Breathing out a startled, anticipatory sigh, Sherlock hurried to the bed. He stared down at the sheets, still rumpled with sleep and smelling of John, and agonized over _how_ to display himself.

He heard the bathroom door open and huffed with sudden panic. He planned for this, had everything figured out, only for his thoughts to scatter in each of the cardinal directions, leaving him to scramble last minute and improvise with the sound of John mounting the stairs.

Alarmed, Sherlock plunked himself down on the edge of the bed, dropped his hands into his lap, and looked expectantly toward the door. With his legs pressed tightly together, back stiff and rigid, his position was less provocative, far more, _where have you been, young man_ than intended. But it was too late to change places with John having reached the landing. Sherlock fixed a helpless smile on his face before the door opened, hoping it didn’t look like a grimace. 

John entered the room and looked up, his expression shifting from blank to bewildered, then toward concern, and Sherlock knew he had bungled it. 

“Sherlock? What are you doing in my room?” John’s eyes narrowed, and he looked closer, gaze raking over Sherlock’s tense form. Instead of raging, hungry lust in his face, Sherlock saw only perplexed anxiety, and he ground his teeth together. The action made John frown. “Hey, you okay? You look… well, I don’t know what you look like, but it looks like it hurts.”

_Oh, bugger._

Sherlock forced his smile wider, oblivious to how it made his face look like a grinning skull. “I’m fine, John. Completely fine. Absolutely, wonderfully, perfectly fine.” His lips were starting to hurt, but he held the expression, echoing John’s usual compliments. John’s brow furrowed, and Sherlock faltered, realizing he must be using them wrong. “But enough about me.” He flapped a hand, voice going syrupy-sweet. “How are _you?”_ There, that was better. Ordinary people liked it when you asked how they were. It gave them a chance to talk about themselves. John was people. He was relatively normal, and surely, he’d appreciate the inquiry. Sherlock fluttered his eyelashes to add a flirtatious advantage to the question. 

But John just blinked and replied, “Confused. I’m confused.” 

Sherlock deflated. The smile fell from his face, and he dropped his eyes, feeling morose. Before they hit the floor, they drifted over John’s body, clad in nothing but a towel secured around his waist. The scant covering did little to hide the shower-damp sheen of his bare skin, highlighting the angle of his hips, the soft, yet defined dip of his stomach. His mouth suddenly a barren desert, Sherlock swallowed with difficulty, tuning back in reluctantly when he realized John was speaking.

“Sherlock? _Sherlock_. You sure you’re alright?” 

Sherlock shook himself, forcing his eyes back to John’s face. “Never better, John.” He patted the space beside him with a simpering smile. “Come, sit. I would like to discuss a serious matter with you.” 

One eyebrow lifting, John licked his lips and glanced around the room. The sight of his tongue flicking out, pink and perfect, made Sherlock’s breath catch, and he exhaled with a soft wheeze. John cocked his head at the sound. “Well, I was going to get dressed and then make breakfast…” 

“Great, that’s great,” Sherlock interrupted, his smile widening as he beat the mattress a little too forcefully, his desperation bleeding into the words. “A _solid_ plan, well done. Brilliant. But first, come sit.” John stared at him, and Sherlock gritted out a beleaguered, “Please, John?” with wide eyes and a pained smile. John always said that manners went a long way, and there was no reason they wouldn’t now. 

Sherlock could hear Mrs. Hudson puttering around in the sitting room downstairs, and theorized that they don’t have much private time left, so it was now or never. 

To his immense relief, John finally sat next to him. He did it with a bemused, wary expression, but he did it. Sherlock sighed, feeling gratified, and basked in the humidity drifting off John’s damp body. His hair was still wet, sticking up on one side, and Sherlock stared at the strands, wondering what it might feel like to stroke his fingers over them. 

John’s voice dragged him from his daydreaming. “Uh, so… what did you want to talk about?” 

Shaking his head to clear it, Sherlock unfolded his tightly-clasped hands from his lap and laid one on John’s bare knee. John blinked at the contact but didn’t say anything, his cautious frown deepening. 

“John, I—” Sherlock began, only to be interrupted by a _thud_ downstairs, followed by Mrs. Hudson calling up to them.

“Boys! You’ve got another one!” She sounded a little hysterical, and Sherlock made a quiet, despairing noise as John hurried to his feet and ducked out onto the landing to see what had happened. Listening to him call down to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock took a moment to smooth his hand wistfully over John’s rumpled sheets before standing and drawing his robe tighter around himself. 

_Bugger._

“Sherlock, come on.” John stepped back into the room and began shooing Sherlock toward the door. “Go get dressed. I think we have a client.” 

Before Sherlock could tell John that he thought they should get dressed together because he would _very much_ like to see John naked and for _John_ to see _him_ naked, he was out on the landing with the door closed in his face. 

Staring at the old wood, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. So far, his plan was _not_ working out the way he’d hoped. He hovered and listened to John opening dresser drawers, waiting and yearning for John to read his mind and invite him back in. When that didn’t happen, Sherlock huffed and whirled away, stomping down the stairs on his way to his room. 

His plan in shambles, he felt a massive sulk building. But now was not the time, and Sherlock pushed down the urge to throw himself over the nearest surface in a Victorian-esque swoon. Instead, he retreated to his bedroom to lick his wounds and regroup before attending to their new client. 

Sherlock scowled at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. His cheekbones were sharp and prominent, one might even say _regal_ , and he really shouldn’t have to work so hard to get into one man’s pants. It had never been a struggle before, and Sherlock’s injured pride pushed his bottom lip out into a pout. He glared at himself and scoffed. Where was _that_ facial expression hiding when he was trying to seduce John? Pushing a flash of annoyance aside, Sherlock tugged his dresser open with a growl. 

_Bloody buggering fuck._

There was nothing for it. The moment had come and gone, and Sherlock had been unsuccessful. His next attempt would just have to be better. Truly foolproof.

“Sherlock! You coming?” John’s voice drifted from the hall, startling him out of his reverie.

“Yes,” he called back, rubbing a hand over his face to erase the pouty expression with a sigh. “I’ll be right out.” Feeling bitter, Sherlock pulled on his socks. His mind was already whirling with a possible Plan B. Looking at himself again in the mirror, he narrowed his eyes and pushed aside the disappointing thought that he would, most likely, _not_ be joining John in his bed tonight. It was nearly heartwrenching, and Sherlock spitefully shoved an arm into the sleeve of his dress shirt. As he moved to button the cuff, his eyes fell on the unmade bed and the tangled sheet. 

A slow smile curved his lips as Plan B struck him like a bolt of lightning.

_Eureka._


	2. Bloody Buggering Fuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of these chapters will closely follow the show scenes and dialogue, so I apologize if reading them feels repetitive! I'll do my best to keep those parts to a minimum where possible. 
> 
> Big shout out thank you to ArianeDevere for their transcripts of the shows! Makes adding the show dialogue so much easier.

_Bloody buggering fuck,_ thought John, watching Sherlock skulk into the sitting room from the hallway in nothing but a sheet. The high thread-count material clung to his svelte figure, leaving little to the imagination for what lay beneath.

Not that John’s imagination didn’t run wild on the daily when it came to Sherlock, and Sherlock’s body, and Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock’s arse, and… well, that was more than enough to be going on. 

While the day was only just beginning, it seemed hell-bent on throwing John for a loop every few minutes. His morning had barely started, but already it included finding Sherlock in his room, running at the mouth and grimacing like he had swallowed an entire beehive. After receiving zero explanation for his presence, they now had a shell-shocked man in their sitting room. A man thinking he somehow murdered a random hiker who, by all accounts, dropped dead with no identifiable cause. 

And there was Sherlock among it all, wearing nothing but a thin, white sheet. Bloody hell.

Tilting his head upward, John closed his eyes and huffed a loud exhale through his nose. He searched for serenity and, as it so often appeared since moving into 221B, discovered it out of reach. When John opened his eyes and snuck a glance into the sitting room, Sherlock shot him a smouldering look before settling in his armchair. He crossed his legs, the movement restricted, and swept the sheet over his bare thighs in a way that seemed purposefully provocative. Or maybe that was all in John’s head, his body oversensitive to Sherlock and the signals that never seemed to come. 

Even with the allure of a strange new case, John’s thoughts kept circling back to finding Sherlock in his room. Of all the times he imagined _that_ happening, fantasized about, wanked to, _ached_ for, it had never been quite like that, with Sherlock looking like a nervous lad interviewing for his first job. It had been unexpected, and even as he stirred milk into his tea, John couldn’t move past the encounter.

Sherlock had been in his room before. Of course he had. Still, it had always been him bursting in unannounced to shout about a case, a breakthrough, or to say his mould sample had turned an alarming shade of blue. That memorable time, they’d had to call poison control and immediately vacate the premises (thankfully a one-time thing. No more mould experiments were allowed in 221B). 

But John didn’t start his day expecting to find Sherlock in his room when John was fresh out of the shower, having just denied himself a wank dedicated to the very cheekbones and prismatic eyes staring at him from _John’s own bed._ Any amorous thoughts had been quickly banished, however, by Sherlock’s face. He had looked positively ill, teeth bared in an expression that reminded John of a skull, and nothing of the sexual activities he might otherwise have entertained upon finding Sherlock in his bed. Before he could get any clarity, their client interrupted with his sudden appearance. 

John gulped his tea and settled on the sofa with an uncomfortable semi-erection that he attempted to hide by crossing his legs. He tried and failed to keep his eyes away from Sherlock’s long, lean body, not wanting to encourage the lust burning under his skin. 

He really should have had that wank, but there was nothing to be done now. 

John sighed, and Sherlock glanced at him before turning his attention back to the client, his eyes narrowing as his gaze flickered over the man, no doubt reading his life story from every inch of his figure. John knew that look, knew what it did to a man. Well, he knew what it did to _him_. It drove him bloody wild. Boiled his blood and made him want to pin Sherlock against the nearest surface to have his merry way with him. It seemed to have a very different effect on everyone else, including their client, who squirmed beneath the scrutiny. Maybe John was just strange. Or maybe everyone else needed to buck-up. He scoffed softly into his tea, mumbling, “Sodding coward,” under his breath. Whether the curse was aimed at himself or the client, John wasn’t sure.

Sherlock glanced his way again, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Tell us from the start,” he said to the client, his voice hard and to-the-point. “ _Don’t_ be boring.” John sighed at the abrasive demand but managed to hold his tongue. The shell-shocked man began to tell his story, reclaiming Sherlock’s focus.

“See, my car broke down,” the man began, and despite his grumbling arousal and the captivating sight of Sherlock wrapped in a rumpled sheet, John found himself riveted. Sherlock watched the man’s face with a hungry expression, no doubt bubbling with excitement for a new case. His eyes kept flicking to John as if checking for his reactions, and John shot him a confused look each time. Sherlock eventually subsided and steepled his fingers together, a pensive little wrinkle marring his brow.

At the summation of the tale, however, John felt Sherlock’s eyes on him again. He looked up and blinked, his mouth turning down in a scowl when Sherlock grinned. 

“John, is your laptop charged?” 

His eyes narrowing at Sherlock’s chipper voice, John uncrossed his legs and sat forward. He knew that tone, and it never prefaced anything he liked doing. “Ye-es,” he said slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It did, and swiftly. 

“Marvellous, perfect.” Sherlock’s smile turned sly, the client looking between them with a bewildered expression. “Hurry up and eat breakfast. You’re going out.” 

* * *

Standing in a field next to a river, John glared at the laptop balanced in his hands. “You realize this is a tiny bit humiliating?” he grumbled, watching Sherlock enter the kitchen yawning and ruffling his hair with one hand, the other clutching that _damned_ sheet closed at his groin. He grabbed a mug from the counter before picking up the laptop. For the umpteenth time since waking that morning, John thanked his military training for bestowing him with enough stiff-upper-lip to keep sane in the face of such adversity. 

Sherlock in a sheet. Sherlock in _nothing_ but a sheet. There was enough wank fodder in just the _idea_ to last John until his dying day. 

“It’s okay, I’m fine.” Sherlock’s voice, velvet-smooth even through the tinny speakers, drew John’s attention back to the laptop. “Now, show me to the stream.” His face filled the screen before the camera dipped with the computer, gifting John with an HD view of Sherlock’s throat, collarbones, and the smattering of moles on his neck. Sucking in a breath, John turned the laptop toward the river, hoping to hide the way his face flushed at the sight.

“I didn’t really mean for you,” he muttered sourly, glad his jacket concealed just how aroused he was. And at a crime scene, no less. There was a dead man _right there,_ and he had an erection. What had his life become? 

Sherlock’s voice drifted to him, and he turned the screen back. Sherlock was still walking across the sitting room, evidently juggling both computer and tea, the picture dipping sideways and displaying a collarbone and half a pectoral muscle. John sighed loudly through his nose, doing his best to think of dead bodies, grandmothers, gross, rotting things in their fridge. It helped, but only just.

“Look, this is a six,” Sherlock was saying, his tone snarky, the doorbell ringing briefly in the background. Sherlock ignored it and settled at the desk. “There’s no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now, go back. Show me the grass.” The laptop was still tilted down, and all John could see was Sherlock from the middle of his nose to his shoulders. While he told himself he _wasn’t_ staring at Sherlock’s mouth, John knew that he was, and it made him want to smack something. Maybe himself, maybe Sherlock, more likely Sherlock’s arse, and— _J_ _esus Christ,_ he really should have had that wank in the shower. 

“When did we agree that?” he asked instead, turning the laptop toward the grass as requested.

“We agreed it yesterday,” Sherlock replied absently as John squatted to bring the camera closer to the ground, panning over the grass. “Stop!”

John halted with a muted, “Sure we did,” aiming the screen in place. 

“Closer,” came the demand, but John swung the laptop toward himself with a sigh instead.

“I wasn’t even at home yesterday. I was in Dublin.” The screen now showed Sherlock’s face up-close, his verdant eyes rolling upward with an exasperated sigh. 

“It’s hardly _my_ fault you weren’t listening.” 

Oh, John was going to murder him. Bare hands and everything. Dump him in the Thames after, the whole nine yards. The doorbell rang again, the sound drifting through the laptop speakers, followed by Sherlock whipping away and yelling toward the stairwell, _“Shut up!”_ He turned back to the screen, and John scowled.

“Do you just carry on talking when I’m away?” He assumed that was the case, given how many decisions seemed to occur without his input. Sherlock’s reply cemented his certainty.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, tilting his head and widening his eyes in mock sincerity. “How often are you away?” He sighed and shifted his focus back to the case. “Now, show me the car that backfired.” 

John shot him a brief look before standing with a grunt. A prick Sherlock might be, but at least his behaviour had softened the rather insistent ache in his groin. Nothing killed an unwanted boner faster than Sherlock Holmes in a strop. And, despite the arrival of a new case, he was in a right mood, lord knew why. John felt a momentary sense of gratitude for technological limits, making it impossible for him to smack Sherlock through the laptop. 

He stood and turned, lifting the laptop to show the road and the car parked on the shoulder. “It’s there.” Walking toward the road with the DI on the scene following, John sighed as Sherlock’s voice drifted from the computer. 

“That’s the one that made the noise, yes?” 

“Yeah,” John replied, turning the laptop back toward him. “If you’re thinking gunshot, there wasn’t one.” Sherlock sat back and narrowed his eyes, his expression pensive. His hand rose, fingers drifting over his bottom lip, and John tamped down the faint stirrings of interest _that_ image inspired. That bloody pouty lip… no, now was _not_ the time. 

He shook his head and refocused on the medical aspect. That was his bit, his contribution to their little team, the comfort of years of training and first-hand experience settling his mind. “He wasn’t shot. He was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument, which then magically disappeared, along with the killer.” Sherlock was now rubbing his index finger along the seam of his lips, and John bit hard on his tongue before adding, “That’s _gotta_ be an eight, at least.” _Because then I wouldn’t have to carry around this laptop and watch you touch your mouth like that, and, dammit, I should have had that_ fucking _wank._

DI Carter spoke at his shoulder, startling John out of his thoughts. “You’ve got two more minutes, then I want to know more about the driver.” 

In true Sherlockian bluntness, Sherlock waved a hand and rolled his eyes. “Oh, _forget him,_ he’s an idiot. Why _else_ would he think himself a suspect?” 

_“I_ think he’s a suspect!” Carter snapped, shoving his face up beside John’s.

 _Christ,_ thought John, glaring at him. _Back off, mate._ Before he could protest the sudden invasion of his personal space, Sherlock tilted toward the camera. His eyes narrowed, expression turning feral. It was both unsettling and painfully arousing, and John sighed with relief at Sherlock’s demand.

“Pass. Me. _Over.”_

“Alright, but there’s a mute button, and I _will_ use it.” He lifted the laptop, and Sherlock snarled.

“Up a bit! I’m not talking from _down here!”_

John’s patience snapped, and he turned to Carter, exasperated and offering the laptop. “Okay. Just take it, take it.” _He’s your problem now,_ he added silently, foisting Sherlock onto the DI. He heard Sherlock’s sharp, snarky voice rattling off deductions from behind him as he stomped through the tall grass toward the road. It sounded like Sherlock was delivering a string of insulting observations about their client, and John sighed. It looked like they’d be having yet _another_ conversation about _not_ offending the people who came to them for help. 

Just once, he’d like an easy day. Just once. 

_Fat chance._

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice carried from the laptop, and John swung back around, catching, “You weren’t answering your doorbell!”

Carter handed the laptop over with a sour expression, one John shrugged at before looking at the computer to see Sherlock frowning at something off-screen, presumably Mrs. Hudson. An unfamiliar man’s voice said, “His room’s through the back, get him some clothes.” 

John frowned. Who was this man, and how did he know where Sherlock’s bedroom was? What was he doing in 221B? Just as a surge of jealousy began to ignite in his stomach, Sherlock replied with a bemused, “Who the hell are you?” His nose crinkled, and a tall man came into the frame.

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes.”

A hand reached for the laptop, and John’s frown deepened. “Sherlock, what’s going on?”

“You’re coming with us.” The man spoke over him, Sherlock turning toward the laptop with a bewildered expression. 

“What’s happening?” John demanded, but the screen went black, and the connection ended. “I’ve lost him.” Tapping at the keypad, he blinked. “I don’t know what…” John shook his head as he failed to regain Sherlock on the screen, and a young, red-headed police officer jogged up with a phone pressed to his ear.

“Dr. Watson?”

John turned, abandoning the laptop for the time being. “Yeah.”

“It’s for you.” 

“Okay, thanks,” John said, holding out his hand for the phone and poking at the laptop again. What had happened?

“Um, no, sir. The helicopter.” A familiar sound filtered through John’s focus, and he turned to watch the rotorcraft touch down in the field, the laptop finally surrendered. His brows drew down in a scowl as he realized what was happening. Such a display could only mean one thing, and John didn’t think he could handle _both_ Holmes brothers on a day like today.

He should have had that wank. No, even more than that, he should have just stayed in bed. 

“Woo-bloody-hoo,” John muttered sourly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, this is not my most serious writing. It might become a little more serious later on as the plot does, but I'm hoping to keep this fun and kind of silly where I can. We'll see how that goes 😋


	3. The Very Heart of the British Nation

After his certainty that the sheet trick would secure his goal, Sherlock felt robbed of success. John’s eyes followed him around the flat often enough for Sherlock to know the man was physically attracted to him. The bit with the sheet should have been the ultimate check-mate. And yet, here he was, still just a flatmate. It was infuriating. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have used the sheet move when they had a client. Bugger. He couldn’t play that card again, not so soon. John would only become suspicious. Though, with how thick John was proving to be, maybe Sherlock _needed_ to be more obvious. 

Sitting on an elegant couch in the middle of Buckingham Palace, still clad in nothing but his bedsheet, Sherlock glowered at a crystal ashtray. He still ached for a sulk, and the visible reminder that cigarettes existed wasn’t helping. His stroppy mood lingered despite snapping at John and DI Carter over the laptop, which hadn’t been the outlet he’d hoped. The drive to the palace had been much worse, with the men sent to fetch Sherlock threatening to lock him underground in _ad finitum_ if he didn’t stop exposing their secrets. 

Sherlock eventually subsided, but not without one last dig at everyone in the vehicle. If he was unhappy, and he was _very_ unhappy knowing that he was still stuck with a flatmate and not a doting, lustfully-riled lover, then _everyone_ would be unhappy. It was childish, but Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to give a single, solitary damn.

On top of his failed seduction, he knew Mycroft waited for him at the end of the car ride, and nothing soured his mood faster than his brother. By the time he walked into the palace, Sherlock was a storm cloud in a bedsheet, wound up and spitting lightning. 

After half an hour, John appeared, looking bemused. He paused and tilted his head questioningly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, still wrapped tightly in the sheet. John glanced at the clothes folded neatly on the table, looked around the room with his fingers flexing at his sides, and finally dropped onto the couch next to Sherlock. Sherlock caught his small, confused smirk from the corner of his eye as John looked around again before doing a double-take and frowning down at Sherlock’s lap. 

His eyes riveted to the windows across from him, Sherlock worked to keep his expression blank. Let John take a good look and come to his own conclusions, for once. 

John’s brows tilted down, and he leaned closer, still staring at Sherlock’s lap. His eyes flickered upward, touched upon Sherlock’s face, and darted away. He stared into the middle distance, a small, perplexed frown creasing his brow. Squinting, he faced forward again and casually asked, “Are you wearing any pants?”

Working to keep perfectly still, Sherlock hummed, “Mmm, no.” 

John nodded. “Okay.” He stared off to the side, heaved a small sigh, and glanced back. Sherlock turned and met his eyes, setting them both off. John snorted, and they giggled, John squinting at Sherlock with his eyes crinkled by amusement. 

Just like that, the storm cloud dissipated, and Sherlock felt himself relax.

“At Buckingham palace,” John gasped, spreading his hands helplessly. “Right.” He cleared his throat and looked around again as Sherlock tilted his head and grinned, unable to wipe the glee from his face. John continued with a sigh, “I am _seriously_ fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray.” Sherlock chuckled, a quiet, breathy exhale through his nose while John shook his head in awe. 

It was perfect. John was happy, and Sherlock was amused, he had a plan to steal an ashtray for John. It was all coming together. Plan C might be possible after all, so long as they weren’t detained too long by insufferable Mycroft. 

Still stunned, John sighed, “What are we _doing here,_ Sherlock? Seriously, _what?”_

Smile lingering on his lips, Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Here to see the Queen?” John asked, looking bemused. At the sound of approaching footsteps, Sherlock looked toward the hallway just as his brother appeared.

“Oh, apparently, yes.” 

Mycroft pulled a sour face as both Sherlock and John dissolved into giggles again. 

“Just once,” Mycroft began, standing stiffly with annoyance hardening his expression, “can you two behave like _grownups?”_

Sherlock sniffed and tapped his bare feet against the soft red rug as John replied, “We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.” 

“I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft,” Sherlock interceded, his brother’s presence already forcing the easy humour between him and John to dissipate. 

“What, the hiker and the backfire?” Mycroft scoffed, hands settled into the pockets of his ridiculous pinstriped trousers. “I glanced at the police report. A bit obvious, surely?” 

Annoyed and working not to show it, Sherlock drawled, “Transparent.” 

And, just like that, everything went sideways. Sherlock didn’t like Mycroft’s stuffy friend, _Harry_ , nor did he care for John’s pointed glance when Harry complimented John’s over-romanticized blog. He deeply hated Mycroft for bossing him around, though John catching a glimpse of his arse when his sheet slipped was a pleasantly unplanned bonus point in his plan for seduction. 

Sherlock did inevitably give in and put on his clothing, dressing in a far-too elegant bathroom with a crystal chandelier hanging over the toilet. Garish. 

What he resented most out of the whole encounter was two-fold. First, there was Mycroft insinuating that Sherlock was _alarmed_ by sex. As if he didn’t possess regal, man-commanding cheekbones and had never touched a cock in his life. The assumption was infuriating. And, second, that everyone in the room, save for John, underestimated him so entirely that they didn’t even notice the ashtray he stole. 

At least John appreciated the gift, though Sherlock had hoped to save the reveal of the ashtray for part of Plan C. But, with them on their way back to 221B to prepare for battle, it was necessary to abandon Plan C. Plan D would just have to be better. And it would be, once Sherlock figured out what it was. 

* * *

In hindsight, provoking an ex-soldier with PTSD just for a disguise wasn’t one of Sherlock’s better ideas. True to his wild, aggressive, deadly nature, John bore him to the ground without pause. The punch had been as needed, the tackle much less so, though Sherlock had to admit that being forced to his knees by John, albeit with an arm wrapped around his throat, wasn’t a _terrible_ experience. 

“Enough, John!” Sherlock finally wheezed once John had pinned him to the ground and rubbed his nose into the dusty cobblestones. Having John sit on his back and shove his face into the dirt, while somewhat enjoyable, did little to help him solve the case. “Get _off,_ John!”

John finally let him up, dusting his clothes off and leaving Sherlock to fend for himself. “Wanker,” John growled, shooting him a scowl. Sherlock waved his words off and scrambled to his feet, trying to straighten out his rumpled jacket. 

“If you had just punched me in the face like I asked—” he began, only to receive a deadly glare.

_“Shut. It.”_

Heeding the warning in John’s voice, Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap. Even with the roughhousing, he thought they made a good team, and he told John as much, earning himself a muttered stream of curses in response. But he caught the faint colour tingeing John’s cheeks and knew John was flattered by the compliment.

But, once again, it all went sideways. The minute Irene Adler walked into the parlour, Sherlock realized where he had gone wrong that day: he should have skipped the sheet and gone straight for stark naked. The woman was a genius, and Sherlock hated that he hadn’t thought of it first. 

Then John walked in, dumbfounded and confused, and Sherlock wished he’d left him at home. He almost missed John’s jealous little comment of, “I had a tea _too,_ at the Palace, if anyone’s interested.” Sherlock and Irene both ignored him, locked in a staredown. 

In Sherlock’s defence, The Woman was a blank canvas. It was infuriating. He glanced at John, deducing several facts on his person. Including, Sherlock noted with a frown, that John had a date that night. _Bugger,_ he thought, turning his attention back to the naked woman. 

“D’you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?” Irene asked, her voice a casual, confident drawl. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, tugging at his collar. He quirked a brow in a silent query, and her lips curved in a sharp smile. “However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

Sherlock frowned. “You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face?”

Her expression slipping toward coy, Irene replied, “No, I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself.” Leaning forward, she added, “Oh, and _somebody_ loves you.” From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John glance his way as Irene smirked. “Why, if I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth too.” Her gaze flickered to John, who tilted his chin upward and voiced a strained, tight laugh. Outwardly, Sherlock kept his expression carefully blank. Inwardly, he was a raging, snarling whirlwind, shouting, _I know, don’t you think_ I know that?! _If everyone could stop meddling, maybe I could get that through John’s thick idiot skull._

John’s terse response forced him back into the moment. “Ha ha ha,” John forced out drily, glaring at Irene. “Could you put something on, please? Er, anything at all, a napkin?” John held up a napkin, flustered. “I—”

“Why?” Irene interrupted, looking at him with a wolfish expression that Sherlock did not care for. _At. All._ “Are you feeling exposed?” 

“I don’t think John knows where to look,” Sherlock intervened, the nudity having gone on long enough for his taste. He rose and retrieved his jacket from the couch, but The Woman was already ahead of him. 

“No, I think he knows _exactly_ where,” Irene crooned. She stood and moved toward John, standing before him, blatant and confident in her bared form. To John’s credit, and Sherlock’s deep-seated relief, John kept his eyes pinned to her face, his expression hardening. Sherlock turned away with a sigh and offered his coat.

“I’m not sure about you,” Irene continued, taking the jacket. 

Studying the room, Sherlock replied, “If I wanted to look at naked women, I’d borrow John’s laptop.”

“You _do_ borrow my laptop,” John said, irritated. Sherlock scoffed, circling the room, his eyes darting over the furniture, the floor, ceiling and walls. 

“I _confiscate_ it,” he corrected, admitting a tiny truth before turning his attention back to Irene. There was a game to be played here, and he meant to win. Plan D could wait until later, and, since John had a date that evening, so could he. Sherlock turned to look at the fireplace, squinting at the tell-tale marks that told him something wasn’t quite how it seemed. Irene spoke behind him.

“Well, never mind. We’ve got better things to talk about. Now tell me. I need to know.” Sherlock turned to her with a raised brow. Sitting on the sofa, Irene tilted her head and looked up at him with an inquisitive expression. “How was it done?”

Sherlock frowned. “What?” 

“The hiker with the bashed-in head.” Legs folded beneath her, Irene began to remove her high heels. “How was he killed?”

Exchanging a glance with John, who looked as confused as he felt, Sherlock replied, “That’s... not why I’m here.”

“No, no, no,” Irene drawled, dismissive. “You’re here for the photographs, but that’s never gonna happen, and since we’re here, just chatting anyway…” She looked at him expectantly, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John, frowning, glanced at Sherlock and back to The Woman.

“That story’s not been on the news yet.” Moving toward the couch, he blinked down at her. “How do _you_ know about it?”

“I know one of the policemen,” Irene hummed, meeting his gaze. “Well,” she added, tilting her head with a playful squint, “I know what he _likes.”_

John nodded. “Oh.” He glanced at Sherlock, bemused, before looking back to Irene and settling on the couch beside her. “And you… like policemen?”

“I like detective stories,” she corrected coyly, favouring him with a small smile. “And detectives. Brainy’s the new sexy.” Her brow cocked, and to Sherlock’s horror, the corner of John’s mouth curved upward in an answering smile.

 _Keep it in your damn pants, Watson!_ he thought fiercely, before launching into a poorly-timed bid for attention.

“Positionofthecar,” Sherlock slurred, earning himself a confused look from both John and Irene. He cleared his throat and soldiered on, struggling to reign in the sudden and furious rush of jealous anger he felt at Irene for flirting with John. “The position of the car, relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire,” he paced past the fireplace, affecting a bored expression. “That, and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That’s all you need to know.” He turned back to face Irene, rocking slightly on his heels.

“Okay,” she said slowly, frowning. “Tell me, how was he murdered?”

“He wasn’t,” Sherlock sighed, already bored of the conversation. He had a good idea of where the photos were hidden, it was just a matter of gaining confirmation.

Irene frowned up at him and her eyes narrowed as she tried to work out what he knew. “You don’t think it was murder?”

Sherlock allowed a bit of cockiness into his voice. “I _know_ it wasn’t.” Now that he knew they were close to finding the photos, he could afford to show off, just a little. Just enough to remind John of who the truly impressive individual was in this room. Sure, Irene put on a good show with her curves and her wit, but Sherlock was a genius, and he could take his clothes off, too. And he would later, for John, and then John would see that Irene was _nothing._

“How?” Irene asked, still frowning. Sherlock smirked.

“The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel, and that the photographs I’m looking for… are in this room.” He turned to check her expression and was pleased with what he saw. His hunch was correct. 

Irene blinked. “Okay, but how?” 

Sherlock’s smugness only grew. “So they _are_ in this room. Thank you.” He glanced at John, who nodded and squinted in understanding. “John, man the door. Let no one in.” John stood and did as requested, closing the door behind him. Left alone with Irene, Sherlock turned to smile at her. It was all coming together. He would have the photos in hand within a few minutes and would be well on his way to refusing a knighthood from Mycroft by the morrow. He could focus on Plan D, scare off John’s date, ensure _Operation Seduce Romantic Flatmate_ was a success, and they could go on solving cases in their merry way. It was foolproof, it was inevitable—

It was hopelessly and utterly _bungled_ within minutes.


	4. Cancelled Date Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to ArianeDevere for their super helpful episode transcripts! 
> 
> I know most of y'all have seen the episode (if not all y'all) but heads up for Sherlock being drugged against his will by Irene, and very brief mention of past substance use. 
> 
> And sorry for the slower update, I've been sick for a few days. This story might slow down as a result, but I'll do my best to not be too slow 😝

Somewhere between being assaulted by Sherlock in a back alley and having a riled-up American point a gun at his head, John Watson decided that today just wasn’t his day. On top of it all, he watched a naked dominatrix flirt with his… his… _whatever_ Sherlock was. And, having believed Sherlock wasn’t interested in anyone, only to have him rush to show off for The Woman, John was feeling rather piqued. 

Also, did no one wear clothing anymore? Sherlock in a sheet, Irene Adler in her birthday suit… it was enough to drive a man mad. Kneeling on the floor, elbow-to-elbow with the dominatrix, John wondered how his life had taken such a strange turn. As he had once said to Mycroft: living with Sherlock, he was never bored.

Among the vitriol spewed toward Irene Adler from the American shouting at Sherlock to open the safe, a barked order shook John from his thoughts. 

“Mr. Archer. At the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson.”

“What?” John snapped, resisting the urge to jerk his head up and scowl. Still standing by the fireplace, hands pressed to the back of his head, Sherlock’s reply was an all-too-calm near-whisper.

“I don’t know the code.” Sherlock’s eyes were wide, unblinking, his already pale face turning white in response to the threat. 

The gun hovering behind John’s head abruptly pressed against the back of his neck, forcing him to duck forward. _Jesus Christ_ , he thought wildly, barely hearing the harsh sound of, “One!” over the blood rushing through his ears. 

He wasn’t a soldier anymore; he was bloody _retired_. Why the _hell_ was this his life? 

“I _don’t_ know the code—”

“Two!”

“She didn’t tell me.” Sherlock’s voice rose, shifting into an emphatic shout. “I _don’t know it!”_

Staring at the floor with his head bent, the cold bite of metal sinking against his neck, John closed his eyes. _Come on, Sherlock._

“I’m prepared to believe you any second now,” the American said slowly, his tone brokering no chance for mercy. John sucked in a breath and tried to listen over the erratic racing of his heart. “Three.”

“No! Stop!” Sherlock shouted, sounding near panic. John’s eyes, having flashed open, closed again, his breathing fast and shallow. There was a pause, and the silence was stretched taut by the tension vibrating in the room. John focused on his shaky inhales, his stuttering exhales, eyes still tightly shut. He heard the electronic beeping of buttons pressed, with a small hesitation between each set. His eyes flashed open, staring at Sherlock’s legs, all John could see without raising his head, still pinned down by the gun. 

_Come_ on, _Sherlock._

The safe beeped twice, followed by a click, and John bit back a sigh. His eyes closed of their own accord, his relief barely easing the adrenaline searing through his body. The American’s nasally voice broke the silence. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” he said, sounding smug. “Open it, please.” 

There was a click as Sherlock turned the latch, followed by a brief pause before shouting, “Vatican Cameos!” 

After having spent the better half of a month being assailed by rogue tennis balls, and Sherlock shouting those same two words, John’s reaction was instinctive. He ducked, feeling something pass overhead, the unmistakable whistle of a bullet. John tilted right, barely catching a glimpse of the man behind him spinning away in a spray of blood. Irene went for the man behind her, and John barely caught Sherlock disarming the nasally American, snatching his gun and using it to clock the man across the face. 

Rolling to his hands and knees, John bent over the man who had taken the bullet from the safe. He pressed his fingers to his neck and felt nothing but skin. Retrieving the gun that had been digging into his nape mere seconds ago, John rose, managing a breathless, “He’s dead.” 

Behind him, Irene said, “Thank you. You were very observant.” 

John glanced at Sherlock, found him watching the dominatrix, and turned toward her as well. “Observant?” he repeated, confused. 

Irene smirked, adding, “I’m flattered.” A sharp little smirk curved her lips, and Sherlock was still staring at her with a stunned look on his face. 

“Don’t be,” he replied. John, frowning down at the dead body by his feet, looked up at Sherlock.

“Flattered?” Was he the only one utterly lost in this conversation? Observant, flattered? What the _hell_ were they on about? Before he could press Sherlock on the topic, Sherlock was on the move.

“There’ll be more of them,” he said, rushing from the room. They’ll be keeping an eye on the building.”

John sighed, pushing his questions aside. He tucked the gun into his waistband and hurried after Sherlock. The damn sod couldn’t be left alone with a weapon and a potential houseful of trigger-happy American psychopaths. Sherlock was a walking, talking health risk to himself, nevermind that John had nearly had his brains blown out mere moments ago. 

He followed Sherlock outside and onto the sidewalk. “We should call the police.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, to John’s relief. Relief, which died rather abruptly when Sherlock pointed the American’s gun into the air and fired five shots. The weapon, now empty, locked into the open slide position, and car tires screeched in the distance as Sherlock trotted back up the steps. “On their way.”

“For God’s sake,” John muttered, following Sherlock back inside the house. The man was a menace, an utter _menace._ They would _definitely_ be having another refresher on gun safety when this was all over, paired with the reminder not to _insult their bloody clients._

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock replied, in full-on git mode. “It’s quick.” They moved back inside, Sherlock adding, “Check the rest of the house. See how they got in.”

“Yeah, sure, why not,” John shot back, stomping away down the hall with a scowl. “Why not just leave you and Ms. Naked Sexy Legs to hash it out in the parlour. Yeah, good, _great!”_ The last was under his breath, spoken once he was out of Sherlock’s hearing. 

The rest of the house proved empty of gun-wielding Americans, a comforting fact in John’s opinion. However, when he reached what looked to be the master bedroom, he found an unconscious woman on the floor. The sight of her temporarily wiped away his jealously.

“Sherlock,” he called, kneeling next to her. She was breathing, and her pulse was steady beneath his fingertips. Just knocked out, then. Hearing footsteps climbing the stairs, John rose and walked to the door to peer out into the hall as Sherlock reached the landing. John moved through the room to the bathroom, where a window was levered open. “Must have come in this way,” he said, returning to the main room. 

“Clearly.” Sherlock stepped past him to check the bathroom himself, and John waved a hand at Irene as she approached the woman on the floor.

“It’s alright,” he said, glancing downward. “She’s just out cold.”

“Well, God knows she’s used to that,” Irene replied, and John glanced at her in bemusement. “There’s a back door,” she continued, narrowing her eyes at him. “Better check it, Doctor Watson.” Irene walked past him toward a table next to the window, and John glanced at Sherlock, who nodded.

“Sure,” John said, crossing the room. Under his breath, he added, “Yeah, go on, tell me what to do. Not like I was a _Captain_ or anything, what the _hell_ am I doing with my life.” He clattered down the stairs, hands balled into the fists. The gun at his back was cold, the metal not-yet warmed by his skin. Spreading his fingers out, John readied himself for any surprises. He found no one else in the house, checking that the back door was locked before returning to the main hall.

As he climbed the stairs, he heard Irene’s voice, ordering, “I… said… _drop it!”_ A thud followed. Brow furrowed, John hurried up the stairs, adrenaline thundering in his ears.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. It’s been a pleasure. Don’t spoil it,” Irene was crooning as he neared the landing. “This is how I want you to remember me. The woman _who beat you.”_

“What in the fucking…” John’s muttered words trailed off as he reached the top of the stairs, jogging for the master bedroom. 

He barely caught Irene’s goodbye before entering the room. She was moving toward the bathroom and the open window, still wearing nothing but Sherlock’s coat. John disregarded her in the next instant when he realized Sherlock was on the floor, groaning, struggling to rise. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his face pale and tense with obvious discomfort. 

“Jesus,” John breathed, frowning at The Woman. “What are you doing?” _What the fuck happened?_ He moved toward Sherlock, stepping over one of his jittering legs to pick up an object on the floor.

“He’ll sleep for a few hours,” Irene replied, ignoring his question as she perched on the window ledge. “Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse.”

“What’s this?” John turned an empty syringe over in his fingers, shock tingling through his body. “What have you given him?” Not waiting for an answer, he turned to the man sprawled on the floor, who was out of it and clearly disoriented. “Sherlock!”

Irene sighed. “He’ll be fine.” Her voice softened to a silvery whisper that made John want to push her out the window himself. But Sherlock was staring past him with wide eyes, his pupils pinpricks, and John didn’t want to leave his side. “I’ve used it on loads of my friends,” Irene added, her tone and face smouldering with a playful glint. 

Sherlock groaned quietly, his head rolling against the floor. “Sherlock?” John knelt and leaned over him, concern blooming in his chest. “Can you hear me?” Sherlock’s only reply was another groan, his unfocused eyes roving past John. 

“You know, I was wrong about him,” Irene mused from her perch on the window’s edge. John stood and turned with a glare, wishing she would shut it. But she didn’t, adding, “He _did_ know where to look.”

“For what?” John asked, turning fully toward her as Sherlock groaned and muttered on the floor at his feet. “What are you talking about?” _And could you please shut the bloody hell up?_

One bare foot planted on the tub, Sherlock’s coat barely covering her modesty, Irene tilted her head toward him with an arch expression. “The keycode to my safe,” she purred, watching his face closely. John narrowed his eyes.

“What was it?” 

Irene’s gaze dropped to Sherlock. When John glanced behind him, he had managed to lift his head off the floor and was blinking dazedly at the woman hanging half out the window. “Shall I tell him?” she asked playfully, only for Sherlock to make a hoarse little whining sound low in his throat. 

The sound of sirens drifted through the open windows, and Irene smirked at John, murmuring, _“My measurements.”_ Still smirking, she fell backwards and disappeared.

 _What the fucking hell?_ John rushed into the bathroom to look out the window, but she was gone. It was inexplicable, and he scowled, watching police cars pull up on the street. He heard a soft thud behind him and turned to see Sherlock trying to rise, only to collapse back. 

“Whoa, hey. Sherlock,” John knelt beside him again and placed a hand on his chest. “Easy now, just lay back. It’s alright. You’re alright.” He glanced at the discarded syringe and frowned. _I’ve used it on loads of my friends_. John scoffed, filled with helpless fury as he watched Sherlock struggle and twist his head, eyelids fluttering. Somehow, John doubted her friends were recovered injection drug users, and that they, unlike Sherlock, had consented to being drugged. 

Sherlock was speaking quietly in slurred mutters that John had to lean down to hear. “I… I… I?” 

“Shhh,” John soothed, stroking a hand through Sherlock’s sweat-damp curls. “It’s okay.”

“John,” Sherlock mumbled, followed by a softer, questioning, “John?”

“Yeah, I’m here, it’s okay.” He swiped a thumb over Sherlock’s clammy forehead. “Police are here, too,” he added, hearing booted feet downstairs. “Just relax, we’ll get you home.”

* * *

Once he heard John and Sherlock were involved, Lestrade appeared. After taking John’s statement, he offered them a ride back to Baker Street. John accepted but refused Lestrade’s offer of help when the man took a video of the disoriented detective on his mobile. Instead, John picked Sherlock up carefully and carried him down the stairs. The effort tugged slightly at his bad shoulder, but Sherlock was light for a man of his height, and John managed to get him into the backseat of Lestrade’s cruiser without incident.

When Sherlock muttered a string of nonsense at him— _The Woman, John, hiker, John? Vatican Cameos—_ John slipped in and lifted Sherlock’s head into his lap, soothing his fingers through his hair until he stilled, murmuring, “Hush, Sherlock. Shh.”

“Hell of a day,” Lestrade commented, guiding the cruiser through London traffic. “You sure he doesn’t need to go to the hospital?”

John stared out the window. Sherlock’s curls clung to his fingers like damp silk, and John shook his head. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll stay with him, make sure he’s alright.”

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at him in the rearview mirror. “Thought you had a date tonight.” 

John lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s fine, she’ll understand.” 

“Didn’t you cancel on her the other week—” Lestrade began, cutting off when John glared at him.

“I said it’s fine.” 

The rest of the ride passed in silence. When they pulled up outside 221B, John refused Lestrade’s offer for help, bending to pull Sherlock back into his arms. After Lestrade opened the doors for him, he excused himself and left, the cruiser rumbling away outside the open window. 

Getting Sherlock up the stairs and into bed was a struggle, the detective’s body heavy and slack. Only bothering to remove Sherlock’s suit jacket, John set him on the mattress and pulled the sheet to his chin. 

“John,” Sherlock hummed, eyelids fluttering. 

“I’m here.” John perched on the edge of the bed, tilting his head as Sherlock snuffled and shifted beneath the sheet. 

“Don’t… The Woman… _don’t,_ John.” 

“Don’t what?” John asked, frowning as he leaned down to catch the fading words on Sherlock’s lips. 

“Don’t look at… at her,” Sherlock managed, and John raised a bemused eyebrow, trying to ignore the jealous rumble in his chest.

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed, patting Sherlock’s shoulder. “I know you got the hots for her, don’t worry about me, mate.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flashed open, wide and hazy. He struggled to get a hand out from inside the sheets, grasping John’s sleeve with a feeble grip. Startled, John blinked at him as Sherlock said, in a slurred but emphatic voice, “No, John. _Wrong.”_

“Sherlock, what...” John began, confused. But Sherlock released his tenuous hold and sank back into the pillow, his eyes slipping shut.

“No look,” he managed, the words sliding into a long, low sigh. His breathing evened out, and he slept. John stared down at him, utterly bewildered. 

“Well, that explains absolutely nothing,” he muttered, eyes narrowed. Shaking his head, John tucked the blankets up around Sherlock again and stood. He paused to crack his back and stretch out his shoulders, not looking forward to the phone call he had to make. Lestrade was right, and John _had_ cancelled on his date before. The conversation would not be a pleasant one.

Squaring his shoulders, John marched toward the door. He paused to glance back at Sherlock, found him deep asleep, and quietly closed the door behind him. John tried not to think about Irene Adler and her smirk, but her words hummed in his head: _he_ did _know where to look,_ and, _my measurements._

John glared at his phone until finally dialling the number. “Hi, Samantha? Yeah, hey, I’m sorry, but something’s come up.”


	5. Text Alert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to ArianeDevere for their transcripts!

Sherlock woke with a throbbing skull, his mouth tasting of cotton. What followed was disorientation, him tipping arse-over-head from the edge of the mattress, and John dragging him back into bed. That part was interesting, John’s hands braced upon Sherlock’s chest, lifting him like Sherlock were no more than a child. The way he tossed Sherlock onto the bed was unexpectedly gruff, but Sherlock had no complaints, and the brief press of John’s hand on his hip was deeply appreciated. 

He just wished the room would stop spinning so he could fully appreciate all the situation had to offer. 

“You’ll be fine in the morning,” John told him, moving toward the door. “Just sleep.”

“Of course I’ll be fine,” Sherlock slurred, already fading into the pillow. John had picked him up, tossed him onto the bed and touched his hip. _John_ was _fantastic._ “I am fine. I’m _absolutely_ fine.”

“Yes, you’re great.” John paused in the doorway, hand on the handle. “Now, I’ll be next door if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock asked when he meant, _why are you leaving?_ Bugger, his mouth didn’t seem to be working. It wasn’t quite listening to his muddled brain. 

John sighed, his voice dismissive when he replied, “No reason at all.” He left, and Sherlock closed his eyes with a sigh. 

A sudden, filthy-sounding moan emanated from the door, and his eyes opened. _John?_ Never mind that the sound seemed distinctly feminine, and John never had made such noise to Sherlock’s knowledge. He sat up and turned toward the door with a frown.

His coat was hanging on the hook, exposed by the now-closed door. Last time he’d seen the jacket, Irene Adler was wearing nothing but it. One of the pockets was lit up, as if by a digital screen, and Sherlock pushed the covers back slowly. Standing was easy, walking was less so, and he staggered backward a few steps before finding his equilibrium. He managed to reach the coat and dug into the pocket, fingers closing around the familiar shape of his mobile. 

Still feeling unsteady on his feet, he bumped against the wall next to the door and squinted down at the phone. The text swam, forcing him to blink until his blurry vision cleared, and the message came into focus.

_Till the next time, Mr. Holmes._

Sherlock peered closer, bewildered. He glanced at the window, remembering the strange, blurred edge of a dream. Finally, shaking his head, he dropped the phone on his bedside table and staggered back to the bed. The sheets welcomed him with the lingering warmth of his own body, and, too loose-limbed to bother undressing, Sherlock sprawled across the mattress and closed his eyes. 

* * *

When he woke, the bedroom was resplendent with sunlight, the sound of traffic drifting through the open window. Sherlock shifted onto his back and blinked up at the ceiling. He recalled how the day prior had begun, so full of possibility, only to devolve into unpredictable chaos. His head still swam, but he felt more rested than he had in ages, despite the sting in his cheek and body from John’s fist and Irene’s riding crop. 

Rolling stiffness from his arms, he sat up, grimaced in distaste for his slept-in clothing, and began to strip. Sounds from the flat drifted in as his awareness sharpened, and Sherlock paused. He heard Mrs. Hudson puttering about in the sitting room, her kitten heels clicking over the hardwood. There was a rush of water in the kitchen, followed by the sound of John’s voice. Unable to make out the words, Sherlock closed his eyes and listened, letting his mind drift to the phantom sensation of John’s hand on his hip. Dimly, he remembered something like fingers on his brow, in his curls, but the memory was too hazy to know if it was a dream or reality, and he brushed it away.

With a wince for his sore body, Sherlock padded through to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. He hummed when the warm water wet his face, infusing his skin with warmth, working the tension from his limbs. Soaping his hair and body, he stayed under the spray until the pipes began to rattle, and the water edged toward cold, and he spun the taps off. 

By the time he emerged into the sitting room, dressed and dried and bundled in one of his robes, John was seated at the desk in the living room, bent over a newspaper section. He looked soft and warm in a white-and-blue striped jumper that hugged his broad shoulders, and Sherlock paused in the hallway to admire the way the windows cast golden hues through his hair. He was radiant, a beacon of solace and comfort, and Sherlock's mouth went dry.

“Finally,” drawled a voice, and all the warm, buzzing bliss seeped out of Sherlock’s body like water down a drain. “I thought you might sleep the day away.” 

Releasing a loud, annoyed sigh, Sherlock stepped out into the sitting room to see his brother in John’s chair. “Mycroft.” It wasn’t a greeting, his stiff words imbued with just how unhappy Sherlock was to find him in the flat immediately upon waking. And with John looking so soft and touchably resplendent, too. His eyebrows furrowed, Sherlock glared at his brother. “I’d say it’s _so good_ to see you, but, well. It's not.” Mycroft rolled his eyes as Sherlock swept across the room to his chair.

“Morning,” John said, glancing up when Sherlock set his phone on the arm. “Feeling any better?” 

Changing his mind on the armchair, Sherlock moved to the desk and dropped into a seat, kitty-corner to John. “Much improved,” he replied, favouring John with an affectionate smile. “Thank you.”

John’s brows rose in surprise, but Mrs. Hudson clicked out of the kitchen with two plates, and the moment ended. She placed egg soldiers in front of them both, pausing to grip Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“I expect you to eat every bite, young man,” she said gravely, narrowing her eyes. “You had _quite_ the ordeal yesterday.” Shooting a sharp look at Mycroft, she trotted back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to stare down at his breakfast, bemused.

“Every bite,” John echoed, catching his attention. A playful glimmer danced in his eyes as he added, “Doctor’s orders.” He winked, and Sherlock’s own eyes widened before John turned his focus to his breakfast. Sherlock dipped his toast into the runny egg yolk and nearly crammed it into his mouth with his eagerness.

The clearing of a throat caught his attention, and Sherlock looked up to find his brother glaring at him. “You’re still here?” Sherlock snapped, scowling. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Did you hit your head, brother mine?” Mycroft asked sweetly, rising to his feet and grimacing as he straightened his suit. “Or have you simply forgotten the sensitive nature of our meeting yesterday?”

Sherlock scoffed. “I haven’t forgotten, Mycroft. Ms. Adler and I came to… an… agreement.” 

Mycroft snorted, and John raised an eyebrow but kept his eyes on his breakfast. 

“If by agreement, you mean she got the better of you, then you better call Oxford and have them change the dictionary definition of the word _.”_ Mycroft sniffed, tapping his umbrella against the floor. Sherlock scowled. 

“The photographs are perfectly safe,” he said, grabbing the other half of the newspaper and flipping it open. The words were meaningless, but it gave him something to focus on while John hummed his pleasure at Mrs. Hudson’s breakfast. It was deeply distracting, and Sherlock didn’t plan to give his brother anything more to lord over him. 

Like how John’s happy little hums were having a direct impact on Sherlock's arousal response, to his ill-timed realization. _Bugger._

“In the hands of a fugitive sex worker,” Mycroft said sarcastically, his expression filled with disdain, voice scattering Sherlock's thoughts.

Lifting his eyes from the paper, Sherlock sighed. “She’s not interested in blackmail. She wants…” he paused, considering, _“protection,_ for some reason.” His eyes shifted to John, who was focused on his own reading, his tongue peeking out to drift over his bottom lip. Sherlock swallowed down a little whine and forced his gaze back to Mycroft. The sight of his stuffy, annoyed face put an immediate damper on any arousal Sherlock felt thanks to John’s enticing display of absentminded lick-lipping. “I take it you’ve stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?”

Mycroft squinted at him like Sherlock might be the dumbest person alive. Which was rude, since Sherlock was pretty sure Mycroft might already hold that title. Actually, Anderson probably had an automatic subscription for the first-place prize. “How can we do anything while she has the photographs?” Mycroft asked stiffly, his jaw clenched. “Our hands are tied.”

Eyes dropping back to the paper, Sherlock quirked a brow, amused. “She’d applaud your choice of words,” he quipped, catching John’s little smirk from the edge of his vision. He tamped down his own smirk and added, “You see how this works. That camera phone is her “get out of jail free” card. You have to leave her alone.” He looked back to his paper before a thought occurred. “Treat her like royalty, Mycroft,” he sneered. John smirked again, his brows rising.

“Though, not the way _she_ treats royalty,” he said, turning his head and flashing a grin at Mycroft. 

Mycroft squinted sarcastically down at John, his lips twisting into a tight, pained smile. 

Sherlock’s phone jittered, the lewd, moaning ringtone sighing from the speakers. John blinked and frowned before glancing at Sherlock. “What was that?” He seemed to think the noise had originated from him, and, briefly flustered, Sherlock blinked back at John. He would think about the implication of _that_ misunderstanding later. Maybe in the privacy of his bedroom, definitely with lube. Possibly flavoured. Forcing his expression toward nonchalance, Sherlock looked at his phone.

“Text.” He stood and moved toward the armchair to retrieve the mobile, John still looking bemused. 

“But… what was that noise?” he pressed, glancing toward the phone. Mycroft was squinting at it as well, his brow furrowed. 

_Good morning, Mr. Holmes_. Sherlock pursed his lips, asking, “Did you know there were other people after her, too, Mycroft, before you sent John and I in there?” He closed the text, pausing to stare at his brother on his way back to the desk. “CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess.” As he dropped into his seat, swishing his robe out of the way, John turned toward Mycroft with a sharp look.

“Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft,” he said sarcastically, eyes narrowed. Before Mycroft could respond, Mrs. Hudson reappeared from the kitchen, setting a plate of bacon in front of Sherlock.

“It’s a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that,” she said sternly, reaching out to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders as John smiled at them both. The warmth of her comfort and John’s regard made Sherlock’s skin positively buzz. “Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes.” 

Mycroft’s face twisted with derision, and he snapped, “Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted. At his side, John sat back stiffly, his face going hard.

 _“Oi,”_ he said warningly, and Mycroft blinked, taken aback. He studied their faces, straightened his shoulders, and squinted at Mrs. Hudson.

“Apologies,” he said. Mrs. Hudson tilted her head in acceptance. 

“Thank you,” she sniffed, turning back toward the kitchen.

“Though do, in fact, shut up,” Sherlock added, irritated by the insinuation that he would willingly need Mycroft for anything ever. His phone went off again, and Mrs. Hudson frowned. John’s eyes widened, and he stared at the device with a pensive expression.

“Ooh, it’s a bit rude, that noise, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson admonished. 

_Feeling better?_ Ignoring Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock squinted at the message as he addressed Mycroft again. “There’s nothing you can do and nothing she will do, as far as I can see.”

John prodded at his egg with his fork, brows still drawn down as Mycroft glared at Sherlock over his head. “I can put maximum surveillance on her.”

“Why bother?” Sherlock replied. “You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her username is _TheWhipHand.”_ John made a small sound of amusement, and Mycroft smiled like a shark at them both.

“Yes. _Most_ amusing.” His phone rang, and he retrieved the device from his pocket, smile shifting into a stern expression. “S’cuse me,” he said, moving out into the hallway. “Hello.”

Sherlock watched him go suspiciously. He had expected more of a fight, but Mycroft seemed willing to let the matter drop, despite the immense pressure placed upon Sherlock the day before to retrieve the photos. He frowned. Something didn’t add up.

John, glancing after Mycroft, blinked, peered at Sherlock’s phone, then leaned back in his chair with an obviously feigned air of nonchalance. “Why does your phone make that noise?” 

Sherlock widened his eyes, playing dumb. “What noise?” he asked innocently, eyes darting to the mobile set by his elbow. _Why do you want to know, John?_

“That noise,” John replied, nodding at the phone. “The one it just made.” He stared into Sherlock’s eyes, unblinking, and Sherlock turned quickly back to his newspaper.

“It’s a text alert.” Sherlock’s tone made it sound as if he were explaining something novel. “It means I’ve got a text.” He clicked his tongue on the final _t,_ and John hummed curiously.

“Your texts don’t usually make that noise,” he pointed out, clearly not willing to drop the subject. Sherlock sighed.

“Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalized their text alert noise.”

John hummed again. “So every time they text you—” The phone went off, the lewd little sigh making John’s eyebrows shoot up. Mrs. Hudson scoffed from the kitchen.

“It would seem so,” Sherlock replied, checking the text and dropping the phone on the table.

_I’m fine since you didn’t ask._

“Could you turn that phone down a bit? At my time of life, it’s…” Mrs. Hudson began before Sherlock shot her a look, and she subsided. 

With the tenacity of a soldier, John sat back again and tilted his head. “See, I’m wondering who could have got hold of your phone." Sherlock lifted the newspaper to hide his face, but John was like a dog with a bone, undeterred. “Because it would have been in your _coat,_ wouldn’t it?”

 _For God’s sake, John, leave it._ Sherlock's jaw tensed. “I’ll leave you to your deductions,” he sighed, knowing they would be wildly incorrect. With _Operation Seduce Romantic Flatmate_ on the backburner for the moment, Sherlock felt bitterly annoyed by John’s insistence of romanticizing Sherlock’s perceptions of Irene Adler. John sniffed.

“I’m not stupid, you know,” he said quietly with a smile in his voice. Sherlock glared at the newsprint in front of him. 

“Where _do_ you get that idea?” Sherlock shot back, still hiding behind the newspaper. _You may not be stupid, but you certainly are_ thick, _John Watson._

“Bond Air is go, that’s decided.” Mycroft reappeared in the hallway, his words drifting through the open door. Sherlock lowered his newspaper to squint at him, curious. “Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later.” Mycroft shot him a brief glance before hanging up.

“What else does she have?” Sherlock demanded, setting aside the newspaper when his brother frowned in confusion. _“Irene Adler._ The Americans wouldn’t be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There’s more.” He rose, meeting Mycroft’s stony gaze. _“Much_ more.” Stepping closer, refusing to back down from Mycroft’s stiff posture, Sherlock added, “Something big’s coming, isn’t it?”

When Mycroft spoke, his voice was cold and clipped. “Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on, you will stay out of this.” Sherlock felt a surge of petulant annoyance at the order, Mycroft’s attempt to control him rankling beneath his skin.

“Oh, will I?”

Mycroft’s eyes hardened. “Yes, Sherlock,” he said softly, a clear warning in his tone. “You _will.”_ He smiled, but there was nothing amused or friendly in the expression. Sherlock glared and tilted his head, stepping away to retrieve his violin. Mycroft had lingered long enough. It was time for him to go. Ordering Sherlock about in his own flat, in front of John… it was _abominable._

Mycroft's entire demeanour changing to something forcefully relaxed, and it was like a switch had been flipped. His smile was amicable, almost believable. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend.” 

“Do give her my love,” Sherlock snipped, setting his violin beneath his chin. Leaning back in his chair, John blinked at Sherlock and smiled as Sherlock dragged the bow over the strings, coaxing _God Save the Queen_ from the instrument. It was a double win, pleasing John with violin playing (as he did), and aggravating Mycroft enough to send him fleeing for the stairs with an irritated expression.

John, grinning, turned back to his reading. Sherlock rotated toward the windows, relaxed now that his brother's dark spectre was no longer hovering over them.


	6. Danger Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently _A Scandal in Belgravia_ stretches from around August 2010 or so to June 2011, so I'll be creating some scenes in the lulls between what we see in the show.

As summer faded into fall, John’s romantic luck grew more and more tenuous. After cancelling on Samantha one too many times, she dumped him. It happened spectacularly, with a massive row on the stairs to 221B. She threw John's apology bouquet into his face and stormed out. 

John had stomped back up to the flat, shot Sherlock a death glare when he opened his mouth to comment, and gone for a very angry shower. 

After Samantha, there came Alice. She had a dog and worked in a law firm, and she was sweet, kind, and had an endearing little gap between her front teeth. Alice lasted all of a month, dumping John on the first of September. She did it over the phone, gently but with conviction, and John couldn’t entirely blame her. After losing to The Woman, Sherlock, in an evident attempt to coddle his injured pride, took on case after case after case. None of them were any good, and all of them somehow involved John stepping in puddles or the Thames or, one memorable time, a writhing mass of maggots. But they kept him busy, and John cancelled date after date until even Alice, despite all her patience, ended things. 

It was probably for the best anyways, as Sherlock kept calling her ‘the one with the nose,’ which John didn’t understand, as Alice had a cute little button nose. Though it was better than Sherlock’s name for Samantha. ‘The one with the spots,’ which was a somewhat ironic name for someone with moles all over his neck to say about someone else. 

Run ragged between his love life failures and the whirlwind once known as Sherlock Holmes, John was about ready to hang up his dating hat for good. A life of celibacy sounded almost appealing after the track record he was building, with the never-ending breakups starting with Sarah. He knew, dimly, that Sherlock was the connecting issue in his separations, but John also knew he had chosen to follow the life they led, and he couldn’t blame the detective. Not _entirely,_ at least. 

Then, halfway through October, John met Jeanette. After John had decided to give up on the dating scene until things settled (if ever such a thing happened), it was a chance meeting. It happened at a coffee shop when they both reached for the same coffee. In the busy cafe, they shared a table, and the conversation flowed smoothly. 

She was a school teacher with a sharp wit and was _tall_ , standing nearly a head taller than him in heels. John liked tall, tall was _good_. He didn’t bother to think about _why_ tall was good, pushing aside some rather unwelcome thoughts about certain other tall people in his life. 

He took her to dinner three days later, then to bed a few more after that, and the sex was great. _She_ was great, with her dry jokes and quick mind. October faded into November, and Jeanette stuck out the Sherlock of it all, though John tried to keep their nights together at her place whenever possible. It wouldn’t do to tempt fate, not with Sherlock more frenetic and irritable than ever. John kept waiting for it to pass, or for Sherlock to move on from the embarrassment of being bested by someone he had severely underestimated, but he never quite seemed to. John put it down to an unrequited crush on Sherlock’s part. The first love was always the hardest.

November faded into December, and Mrs. Hudson click-clacked her way up to 221B one morning with a plate of scones. 

“Yoo-hoo,” she trilled, pushing into the sitting room. Cozied up on the couch with Jeanette in front of a Christmas movie on the telly, John glanced up at her entrance. 

“Here,” he said, rising to help with the tray. “Let me take those.” 

“Oh, thank you, dear.” Mrs. Hudson patted his arm once her hands were free and offered a warm smile to Jeanette. “Hello, Jeanette. How are you? Looking forward to Christmas break?”

Jeanette returned the expression, scooting closer to John when he returned to the couch and offered her scone. “Yes, thank you. It’ll be good to have time off.”

“Any plans, then?” 

Jeanette shrugged and smiled at John. “Christmas Eve, we might have a little night in, then John is off to his sister Harry’s on Christmas Day.” 

“Oh, lovely.” Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands together and looked thoughtful for a moment. “I thought we might do something here,” she said, glancing around the cluttered sitting room. “Christmas is often quiet for me, and it would be nice to have a bit of noise and fuss, for once.” Her eyes glimmered, and she winked at John. “Aside from the _usual_ noise and fuss kicked up by _Himself."_

“Mrs. Hudson, you wound me.” The words emerged from the hallway shortly before Sherlock appeared in his pyjamas and a robe, hair mussed and sticking up in every direction. There was a pillow crease on his right cheek that, combined with the hazy look in his eyes, made the detective appear soft and sleepy. 

John averted his eyes and turned toward Jeanette, his chest feeling inexplicably tight at the sight of a sleep-rumpled Sherlock. She quirked an eyebrow and smiled at him.

“Oh, Sherlock, maybe if you didn’t shoot holes in my walls, I would have nicer things to say,” Mrs. Hudson quipped, though her expression was fond as Sherlock sprawled in his chair. “I was just saying to John and Jeanette that it might be nice to have a little Christmas do here at Baker Street.”

“Death might be preferable,” Sherlock deadpanned, earning an eye roll from Mrs. Hudson and John. 

Mrs. Hudson sighed and wiggled her fingers at him. “Don’t be such a grinch, Sherlock.”

Amused by Sherlock’s sour expression, John spoke up, “I think it sounds lovely, Mrs. H.” He cast Sherlock a glare and received one in response. “Have some drinks, snacks, a tree. It could be nice.”

Sherlock heaved a loud, dramatic sigh but subsided, sinking deeper into his chair like a petulant child. He cast a wistful look at the couch, no doubt missing his usual swooning spot, and John smirked at him. Sherlock blinked back.

“Oh, lovely!” Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together before aggressively shoving a scone into Sherlock’s startled face. “You let me know the guest list, and I’ll make sure to bake enough goodies.” Ignoring Sherlock’s protests for the crumbs now littering his chest, she tapped him on the shoulder and disappeared back downstairs. 

“So,” John began, glancing at Jeanette. “Party sound good?” 

She smiled and shrugged. “As long as we can keep our plans for after.” She cocked a brow again, and John’s grin widened to something impish.

“Mmm, wouldn’t _dare_ miss that, Ms. Smith,” he growled, dropping a hand on her thigh. Jeanette fluttered her eyelashes sarcastically at him, and Sherlock made a loud gagging sound from his chair. “Oi, that’s enough out of you,” John barked, shooting him a glare. Sherlock stared at him with narrowed eyes before turning his head away with a small frown. Surprised at the lack of response, John cleared his throat. “So. Who should we invite?” At Sherlock’s silence, he prodded, “Lestrade? Molly? Maybe Mike?” 

Sherlock waved a hand but didn’t speak. John frowned. “Sherlock?”

“Invite whoever you like,” Sherlock snapped, abruptly rising to his feet with a swish of his robe. His upper lip twisted back, eyes cold as they darted over John and Jeanette. “You always do whatever you want, regardless of what I think. Why stop now?” His voice was sardonic, biting, and John blinked rapidly, taken-aback. Sherlock snatched the scone up from his chair without waiting for a reply and disappeared down the hallway. The slam of his bedroom door punctuated the foul, lingering atmosphere left behind in his wake, and John blinked again, bemused. 

Jeanette sighed. “Oh, wonderful. Another strop from your dear flatmate.” John bristled at the words.

“That’s not really fair,” he said, mouth tugging down at the corners. “He’s… well, you know how he is. He needs a case, that’s all. It's been a few days. He's antsy.”

“He needs _therapy,”_ Jeanette said harshly, and John frowned. 

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear you say that.” His voice emerged sounding cold, nearly as frigid as Sherlock’s own tone. Jeanette looked immediately chagrined.

“I’m sorry, John,” she sighed. “It’s just… he always interrupts our dates and makes a scene over the littlest things. I don’t know how you put up with it.”

Brow furrowed, John looked down at his lap, hands clasped tightly together. “He’s my friend,” he said softly. “I know you don’t know him that well, and I know he can be a right wanker sometimes, but he…” John shook his head and glanced at her before looking at Sherlock's empty chair. “At one point, he was all I had, and I’m grateful for that. So, yeah, sometimes he’s a pain, but I owe him more than I care to say.” He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable with the admission. “If you could just be patient with him, I’d appreciate it.”

Jeanette searched his face before nodding. “Alright, John. I’ll try.” John smiled in relief and reached out to take her hand in his, squeezing tightly.

“Thank you.”

* * *

The Christmas party arrived the way things often do around the holidays: abruptly and seemingly without time passing. John and Jeanette continued to date, continued to have little arguments about Sherlock, but were still together by Christmas Eve. It was the longest relationship John had kept going in months, and he was feeling cautiously optimistic. 

Then, true to style, Sherlock called Jeanette _Sarah_ and listed out John’s entire recent dating history— _No, Sarah was the doctor, and then there was the one with the spots, and then the one with the nose, and then... who was after the boring teacher?_ —to John's utter horror. 

The night only went downhill from there. Sherlock told Lestrade his wife was cheating on him with a PE teacher. He said John’s sister was still an alcoholic. He embarrassed Molly before inexplicably finding a gift on the mantelpiece and disappearing into his room. Thanks to the bloody text alert from Irene Adler, John knew Sherlock had received 57 texts from her, and that Sherlock was as squirrely as ever about it.

“D’you ever reply?” John called after him when Sherlock retreated from the brightly-lit sitting room. He didn’t receive an answer and scowled. Excusing himself and wincing at Jeanette’s scowl, John moved down the hallway to Sherlock’s bedroom and the open door. Hand on the door's edge, John looked in to see Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear. The red box was open next to his knee, a sleek black phone resting on the sheets. John narrowed his eyes as Sherlock spoke into his mobile. 

“I think you’re going to find Irene Adler tonight.” A pause as John held his breath when Sherlock went on, “No, I mean, you’re going to find her dead.” John’s hand slipped to the doorknob.

 _Christ,_ he thought, wondering how Sherlock must feel, knowing Irene might be dead. As far as John knew, she seemed to be Sherlock's first crush, the first person he had responded to in such a fashion. John had no way of predicting how Sherlock might react, and that worried him. 

Sherlock stood and ended his call, moving toward the door with a blank expression. Startled by the emptiness of his face, John blinked. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied curtly, reaching out to close the door in John’s face with a hard click. Staring at the wood in front of him, John frowned. 

_Bugger_.

Before he could turn back to the sitting room, his own phone rang. Fishing it out of his pocket, John squinted at the screen. _Mycroft Holmes._ He sighed and answered. “He closed his bedroom door in my face,” he said, without preamble. A loud exhale sounded in his ear.

“I was worried something like this might happen,” Mycroft replied, his tone terse. “I thought warning him off would be enough to distance him from what seemed inevitable.” 

“You think he’s that bothered?” John asked, moving quickly into the hallway and through to the stairwell for privacy. Another sigh in his ear.

“My brother is surprisingly fragile for a self-diagnosed ‘high-functioning sociopath,’ John." Mycroft appeared to be choosing his next words carefully. “You are aware, I assume, of his history? Of his… habits?”

John’s jaw clenched. “I am,” he replied in a grim tone, flashing back to his first night at 221B, and the fake ‘drug’s bust.’ 

“Good. Then this will make what I have to say easier.” John sank down onto the bottom step and waited. “In our household, we call certain night’s ‘danger nights.’ I know you have a sister with addiction issues, so I can only assume you understand what such a term refers to.”

“Yeah.” John stared down at his knees, brows drawing together. “We called them something else, but I’m sure it meant the same.” 

“Indeed.” Mycroft inhaled loudly. “John, I’m going to send a car for Sherlock, and I will meet him at the mortuary. I have my people working to find the body if there _is_ a body. Do you know why Sherlock thinks Adler might be dead?”

Flexing his fingers, John wet his lips. “I’m not really sure. There was a gift on the mantelpiece, dunno where it came from. But he got a text, found it, and called you.”

“Alright.” A brief pause, followed by, “When was the last time Sherlock smoked?” 

John cast back through his memories with a frown. “Not for ages. He’s using nicotine patches.” 

“Yes, that’s right. John, I’m going to offer Sherlock a cigarette once we confirm whether Irene Adler is dead. If he takes it, tonight will likely be a danger night." Mycroft's tone was grim. "I need you to search the flat. If you find anything, anything even remotely suspicious, dispose of it. Do you understand?” 

“Yeah, I do,” John said in a quiet voice. 

“Good. I’ll call you before he leaves for home. The car should be there shortly.” Another quick pause. “Thank you, John.”

“Of course,” John replied, and lowered the phone when the line disconnected. He remained on the stairs for a moment longer, letting Mycroft’s request sink in. Gone was his mild annoyance at Sherlock’s behaviour, the comfort of Christmas cheer seeping away as anxiety took its place. 

Finding his strength, John rose and tucked the phone into his pocket. When he returned to the sitting room, Sherlock was shrugging into his coat, and Greg and Molly both looked tense next to the fireplace. Molly had her jacket on as well.

“I've been called in,” she said, offering an apologetic smile. She shot an uncertain look at Sherlock, but he was wrapping his scarf around his neck with a rigid expression. “Thanks for the invite, it was… fun?” Molly giggled nervously, lay a hand on John’s shoulder, and slipped out. Greg rose to his feet and cleared his throat. 

“Maybe I’ll be off, too,” he said, giving John a questioning look. John shook his head slightly, and Greg nodded, sinking into Sherlock’s chair. Jeanette was in John’s seat still, staring pensively into the fireplace. 

John turned toward Sherlock, his voice softening. “Mycroft is sending a car. It should be here soon.” As he spoke, headlights glowed on the street outside, and a honk sounded through the muffled air of the snowy night. Sherlock avoided his eyes and nodded silently before he whirled away, his footsteps staccato on the stairs. 

Hearing the street-level door close behind him, John turned to Greg with a sigh. “I need your help.” Greg stood at once, nodding, his expression sombre.

“Danger night?” he asked, and John’s shoulders dropped slightly, relieved that he didn’t need to explain. He tilted his head in a silent affirmative. “Yeah, okay.” Greg paused to grip John’s arm, looking him in the face. “It’s not my first one. We’ll get it done.” He squeezed before releasing his grip. “I’ll start in the bathroom.”

John watched him move down the hall and turned to Jeanette. She was still staring into the fire, her mouth pursed into a tense line. “Hey,” he said, bending down beside her. She didn’t look his way, and John sighed. “I just have to take care of something, then we’re good to go, okay?” 

Turning to him, she narrowed her eyes. “Sure,” she said, her voice tense. “Whatever you say, John.” 

Too keyed-up and worried about Sherlock to deal with her apparent desire for an argument, John stood and swung away. He moved into the kitchen and set the kettle before bending down to open the cupboards beneath the sink. 

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

After rifling through bottles of chemicals, checking in unused dishes and the bookshelves, John checked in with Greg. Together, they checked every inch of the sitting room. Jeanette sat on the couch and ignored them both, sipping tea with a hefty helping of scotch. 

When the only space remaining was Sherlock’s bedroom, John thanked Greg and sent him home.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he asked, watching John’s face with concern. John shook his head and scraped a hand through his hair. 

“No, it’s just his room left. Mrs. Hudson and I can handle it.”

“Not what I meant, mate.” Greg’s lips pinched together. “I can, you know... I can help, if he… if Sherlock...” he shrugged helplessly, and John smiled, feeling a sudden rush of gratitude for the gruff DI.

“I appreciate it, Greg. But it’ll be okay. We've got it.” 

Greg smiled back, patted John’s arm, and took his leave. Turning back to the living room, John saw Jeanette on the couch, still ignoring him. Mrs. Hudson stood by the kitchen, gazing sorrowfully at the tree.

“Poor Sherlock,” she sighed, looking up at John with wide, anxious eyes. “Do you think he’ll be okay, John?”

Shrugging, John offered an uncertain smile. He glanced down the stairs. “Hopefully.” His phone rang, and he turned back toward the sitting room as he answered. 

“He’s on his way,” Mycroft said by way of greeting. “Have you found anything?”

“No,” John replied, stepping further into the room. “Did he take the cigarette?”

Mycroft sounded defeated when he answered, “Yes.”

“Shit.” John’s curse emerged on a sigh. He turned toward Mrs. Hudson. “He’s coming. Ten minutes.” 

“There’s nothing in the bedroom,” she replied, having rechecked it after John. She looked tense, her hands fluttering near her face.

“Looks like he’s clean. We’ve tried all the usual places.” John paused, swallowing before he added, “Are you sure tonight’s a danger night?

“No,” Mycroft admitted, “but then, I never am. You have to stay with him, John.”

John’s eyes darted to Jeanette on the couch, who raised an eyebrow at him in silent response. “I-I’ve got plans,” he protested weakly, glancing at the tree. 

When Mycroft replied, his tone was severe, almost disgusted. _“No.”_ The call disconnected as he hung up. 

“Mycroft? M—” John’s voice faded into a sigh, and he lowered the phone. Grimacing, he slipped it back into his pocket and moved toward the couch, where Jeanette shifted away from him with her lips pursed. “I am really sorry.”

“You know, my friends are _so_ wrong about you,” Jeanette said, her tone bordering on sarcastic. John hummed in confusion, and she shook her head with a wry twist of her lips. “You’re a _great_ boyfriend.”

Bemused, John nodded and laced his hands together, turning to look at the fireplace. “That’s… good. I mean,” he looked back at her in confusion, “I always thought I was.” The conversation was not going how he had expected. He had anticipated an argument, harsh words and accusations. Not the calm, complimenting dialogue now directed his way.

Staring at her watch, Jeanette continued. “And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man.” Without meeting his eyes, she leaned over to pull on her shoes from the floor. John groaned. 

“Jeanette, please.” _Not this again,_ he thought. Similar comments had been made in recent fights. While everyone always seemed to assume he and Sherlock were a couple, John didn’t expect it from his own girlfriend. Nor did he like it.

Jeanette was continuing, her voice rising angrily. “No, I mean it. It’s _heart-warming._ You’ll do anything for him, and he can’t even tell your girlfriends apart!” Shooting him a look, she rose and moved toward the door, John jumping up to follow.

“No, I’ll do anything for you. Just tell me what it is I’m not doing,” he asked desperately, watching Jeanette swing her coat over her shoulders. “Tell me!”

“Just don’t make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!” she shot back, buttoning the front of her coat. 

“I’ll walk your dog for you,” John said, lowering his voice as he touched her waist and added, “Hey, I’ve said it now. I’ll even walk your dog.” He gazed up at her with an earnest, pleading expression. 

Jeanette stared at him, her face incredulous. “I don’t _have_ a dog!”

“No,” John said, despair sinking in as he realized his mistake. “Because that was… the last one…” his voice trailed off into a frustrated sigh. “Okay.” He looked away, eyes staring unfocused at the floor.

“Jesus!” Jeanette snapped, bending down to grab her purse. 

“I’ll call you,” John tried as she stomped toward the stairs.

“No!”

John replied with a perfunctory, “Okay,” before moving into the sitting room, turning to stare toward the windows as his jaw worked, muscles clenching. 

“That really wasn’t very good, was it?” Mrs. Hudson said behind him, and John turned his head stiffly toward the fireplace. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he ground out, feeling tense and worked up and itching for a fight. But Mrs. Hudson just cooed at him, rubbed at his shoulders, and excused herself before leaving him alone in the flat to wait for Sherlock. 

Staring at the fireplace, John scowled. _Merry fucking Christmas, Watson,_ he thought bitterly, moving into the kitchen to pour himself something strong and alcoholic. He carried the drink back to the sitting room and sank into his chair, the room dimly lit by fairy lights and the wavering, orange hue of the fire. After glaring at the skull set on the mantle, John grabbed the book he was reading off the table and flipped to the bookmarked page.

Sherlock’s footsteps sounded on the stairs several minutes later. John kept his eyes glued on the page, trying not to let the anxiety and frustration humming through his body emerge from his lips. He closed the book and turned as Sherlock paused in the doorway, his eyes roving over the sitting room.

“Oh, hi,” John greeted him. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, flickered, and continued their focused scan. “You okay?” John asked softly, unnerved by the utter lack of emotion on Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock didn’t reply, just turned and moved back down the hall. Just as John began to think he wouldn’t speak at all, Sherlock’s voice drifted through the open door. “I hope you didn’t mess up my sock index this time.”

John froze. He waited until he heard Sherlock’s bedroom door close and set the book aside. Heaving a loud, tense sigh, he rubbed a hand over his face and stared into the fire, wondering how things had changed so drastically in just a few hours. 

Lost in his thoughts, he listened to Sherlock moving around in his bedroom. He waited until everything quieted, then rose and drifted toward the hall. The light was on in Sherlock’s room, creeping from beneath the closed door, and John hesitated before moving forward.

When he knocked, he received nothing but silence in reply. John tapped gently, calling, “Sherlock? Sherlock, you okay?” Nothing from the detective, though he heard the soft sound of a door closing, and the light flickered on in the bathroom. John hovered until the shower began running and returned to the sitting room with a pensive frown.

Digging out his phone, he dialled Harry’s number.


	7. Definitely Not Mycroft

Sherlock’s ego was bruised. More than bruised, it was in tatters. Despite the show he put on for everyone, he was not, in fact, infallible. Nor was he impervious to the impacts of failure, as his most recent string of defeats highlighted. 

First, there had been the case he failed the solve. The dead man in the trunk of a car, and John spreading the news of Sherlock being stumped for all the blogging world to read. Then his utter failure to take things to the next level with John, who continued to date anything with a pulse, so long as it wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, apparently.

And then there had been Irene. Not only had he failed there, but he had also been cowed, beaten into literal submission. He had been so sure of himself, cocky, flying high on the possibility of quick success and returning to his pursuit of John. 

It had all come crashing down with one fell swoop, and it was indeed true what they said: what goes up must surely come down. 

And Sherlock came down like a landslide. 

John hovered like a bad omen, desperate and anxious to provide comfort. Sherlock closed himself off, retreating to lick his wounds. He withdrew into his Mind Palace, trying to determine what he could have done differently. Irene Adler was dead, and Sherlock had never had the chance to redeem himself in his brother's eyes. He couldn't prove his mettle to John, to the Royal Family themselves, never mind how little he cared for their opinion.

But the bottom line was this: he, Sherlock Holmes, was a failure. In every way that mattered, he had come up short, just as he always did. The Work was supposed to be his safety net, his chance to show everyone that there was something worthy in him, worth admiration. 

Instead, he crashed and burned in The Work just as he had in every area of his life. In love, friendship, sobriety, all those things ordinary people held as cherished, Sherlock had not succeeded. 

The fact of it rankled and burned and soured in his stomach, and Sherlock found himself sinking into a deep fog. His head was dark, his heart felt blackened, and he no longer saw the point moving forward. 

All that kept him going was the allure of the phone. Irene Adler’s mobile had been left to him for some unspecified reason. As time passed, and he held the phone in his hand, staring at its glossy surface without answers, Sherlock became obsessed. Why were the Americans involved? Mycroft had never explained, and Sherlock, ever the detective despite his recent short-fallings, burned with curiousity. 

If he could get into the phone, divine the code, he would know. 

His life became a precarious balance. In between fending off John’s attempts to connect, Sherlock worried at the phone. He stared at it for hours, sinking deep into his mind to ponder potential passwords. It infuriated him that the one person who could give him answers, Irene Adler, was dead, and he was left not knowing and going mad with it.

When he wasn’t obsessing over the phone, Sherlock composed. He coaxed soft notes from his violin, filled with brief comfort in the moments when he played. Sherlock's song was melancholic, heavy with sorrow for the collapse of who he once thought himself to be. He was no longer the genius, no longer the famous detective. He was a shadow, a farce, a fraud, a failure, and the agony of his mind bled into the music. 

John, of course, misread the situation entirely. 

New Year’s Eve crept upon them despite the mournful atmosphere hanging over the flat. Mrs. Hudson set breakfast for him, which Sherlock ignored in favour of standing before the window and his music stand, pouring his broken ego into the vibrating strings. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Mrs. Hudson retrieving his untouched plate as she and John, his shoulders soldier-stiff, exchanged concerned glances. John shrugged into his coat, and neither of them commented.

On her way to the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson said, “Lovely tune, Sherlock. Haven’t heard that one before.”

Sherlock ignored her, scribbling a notation on his sheet music. He ignored John’s soft throat clearing.

“You composing?” John asked. Sherlock’s lips twitched.

“Helps me to think,” he replied in a monotone, wishing John would leave well enough alone. Despite Sherlock’s rebuffing him repeatedly whenever John offered comfort, the ex-soldier was tenacious. Sherlock lifted his violin, settled it beneath his chin, and began from the start of the piece. John was quiet behind him for a moment before speaking again, his voice soft.

“What are you thinking about?” 

Instead of answering, Sherlock stiffened as a thought occurred. He halted in the middle of a note, the sound strangled into a sharp little screech. Turning, he set the violin and bow on his chair and pointed at John’s laptop. The screen was open to John’s blog, the counter still stuck on _1895_ , a number it had displayed since Christmas Eve. “The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five.”

“Ye-es,” John said slowly, moving so he could see the screen. “It’s faulty, can’t seem to fix it.”

Feeling a thrill of excitement, Sherlock pulled Irene’s mobile out of his pocket, holding it in both hands as they quivered with potential. “Faulty or you’ve been hacked, and it’s a message.” He entered _1895_ into the lock screen, breath catching in his throat alongside a surge of hope.

The screen flashed red. _Wrong password. 3 attempts remaining._ Sherlock’s brief flash of hope flickered and died, and he pursed his lips, muttering, “Just faulty,” before turning back to his violin. 

“Right,” John sighed, before repeating himself in a defeated voice. “Right.” Sherlock drew the bow over his violin strings, pressing on the fret and coaxing a high, wavering note from the instrument. John, sounding disappointed, added, “Well, I’m going out for a bit.” 

Sherlock ignored him, listening to John’s footsteps recede into the kitchen. He heard the jingle of keys, followed by John speaking quietly to Mrs. Hudson. They clearly thought him too focused on his composing to hear, but he did not miss their soft words.

“Listen,” John said slowly, his tone pensive. “Has he ever had any kind of, ah... girlfriend, boyfriend, _a relationship,_ ever?” 

Mrs. Hudson’s reply was a soft whisper that Sherlock barely caught between notes. “I don’t know.” 

“How can _we_ not know?” John demanded. 

“He’s Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson replied as if that summed everything up. Sherlock scowled at his reflection in the window. “How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?”

“Right... see you.” Sherlock heard John toss and catch his keys before slipping out through the doorway in the kitchen. He listened to his footsteps on the stairs, looking down at the street in time to catch John exiting the building.

It seemed he was always watching John leave through these windows. 

Sherlock paused in his playing and frowned as John suddenly stopped and turned back the way he'd come. Watching with narrowed eyes, Sherlock tilted forward and peered down to find John talking to an attractive woman in a black shawl. His frown deepened to a scowl. _A new date? So soon after Jeanette?_ His lips pursed.

Studying John’s body language, however, Sherlock realized John didn’t know the woman. She was a stranger to him, then, as much as she was to Sherlock. They spoke for a moment before a sleek, black car drifted to the curb, and John turned to glare at it with his back stiffening. Sherlock stiffened with him.

It was not one of Mycroft’s cars. Nor was the woman one of Mycroft’s aides. Sherlock set his violin down with care and watched as John and the woman slipped into the car. He was already in his coat and thundering down the stairs before it pulled away, hailing a passing cab. 

* * *

The car led him to Battersea. An old, abandoned power station, the structure almost skeletal against the late December sky. 

Paying the cabbie, Sherlock exited the vehicle and slunk toward the building, keeping to the shadows. John and the woman were already inside, and Sherlock followed the sound of their voices, their ringing, echoing footsteps, through the derelict building. 

Sherlock hid on a walkway adjacent to the one John and the mystery woman walked. He hunkered behind a pillar as the woman directed John through a door. Sherlock hesitated, waiting, trying to keep his breath steady. He studied the woman as she walked back the way she had come. Pressing a mobile to her ear, she spoke to someone on the other end, her voice carrying clearly through the rusted beams of the power station.

“He’s on his way. You were right,” she said, and her tone dripped with amusement, “he thinks it’s Mycroft.”

Filled with trepidation, her words throwing him back to a pool, to finding John strapped with semtex and wires, Sherlock crept into the room John had entered. 

It was a massive space filled with power-control boxes and a thick, suffocating layer of dust. Sherlock covered his nose and mouth with his scarf, trying not to breathe it into his lungs, trying to keep silent. The dust helped muffle his footsteps, and he prowled parallel to John, hidden in the shadows, the large room amplifying John’s own steps. 

“He’s writing sad music.” John’s voice was sudden and loud, making Sherlock jump. Regaining his composure, he tucked himself next to a large, silent machine and listened as John continued. “Doesn’t eat, barely talks… only to correct the television.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked at John’s tone, at his attempt for humour even when his voice belied his anxiety. 

“I’d say he was heartbroken, but, uh, well, he’s Sherlock.” John’s footsteps stopped, but Sherlock heard another, softer set, and he squinted as a shape emerged into where John’s voice drifted to the high ceiling. “He does all that anyway…” John’s voice faded, and he fell silent, no doubt spotting the person who had stepped out into view. Sherlock still couldn’t quite make out who it was, but their stance seemed vaguely familiar. Either way, it definitely wasn’t Mycroft. Not with _that_ figure.

“Hello, Doctor Watson,” said a soft, feminine voice, and Sherlock’s next breath caught in his throat. _It couldn't be…_

A long silence followed. Sherlock scowled into the dark, wondering how Irene had faked her death, only to reveal herself to John, and John alone. Was there something between them he had missed? Had John’s brief flicker of attraction to her wit been more? 

His blood ran cold as a thought occurred. He had once stood in a swimming pool and believed, albeit briefly, that John was Moriarty. Just a split second, a moment of misunderstanding when John spoke Moriarty’s words, crooned to him through an earpiece. That same sensation of shock ripped the air from Sherlock’s lungs, and he shoved his scarf deeper into his mouth to stifle a gasp. 

What if John and Irene had been in on it together? What if the man Sherlock had shared his life with for nearly a year was nothing but a facade? What if John cared nothing for him, neither as a friend nor more? 

Just as his thoughts began to spiral into horror, John spoke. His voice was soft but still carried, his tone desperate. “Tell him you’re alive.” It was a plea, a beseeching request, and Sherlock huffed a strained noise into his scarf.

“He’d come after me,” Irene said. John’s reply was heavy with controlled aggression.

 _“I’ll_ come after you if you don’t.” 

“Hmm,” Irene hummed, her tone taking on a hint of impressed amusement. “I believe you.”

Sherlock jumped at John’s response, the words rising into a shout. “You were dead… on a _slab._ It was _definitely_ you.” 

Irene’s retort was much softer. “DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep.”

“Oh, and I bet _you_ know the record-keeper,” John sneered, clearly unamused. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed through his scarf, still pressed into his face, to muffle his sigh.

“I know what he likes,” Irene admitted, ever confident, unruffled by John’s anger. “And I needed to disappear.”

“Then how come _I_ can see you, and I don’t even want to?” John’s voice was edging toward soft and steady, his most dangerous tone. Sherlock smiled against the soft fabric pressed into his lips, his doubts about John dissipating as warmth filled his chest. After days of feeling cold and empty, the sensation was startling but not unwelcome.

Irene breathed a soft laugh. “Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping, and now I need it back, so I need your help.”

John’s reply was an immediate, “No.” Hard and final.

“It’s for his own safety,” Irene insisted. 

“So is this.” John’s tone was sharp enough to cut glass, and Sherlock shivered, easily imagining the terse expression on John’s face. Something of the old Captain Watson bled into the words, and Sherlock smirked. “Tell him. You’re alive.” 

“I can’t,” Irene said, and John seemed to reach his limit on remaining patient and calm.

“Fine,” he snapped, voice rising. “I’ll tell him, and I _still_ won’t help you.” His unsteady words, punctuated by furious breaths, pushed through his nose: John at his angriest. Sherlock heard his footsteps as John turned to leave. 

“What do I say?” Irene called after him, and John’s steps halted. When he answered, it was in a furious shout, Sherlock jolting in surprise.

“What do you _normally_ say?!” John demanded, his footsteps moving closer. “You’ve texted him _a lot.”_

“Just the usual stuff.”

“There is no _usual_ in this case,” John said firmly. Sherlock heard the soft sound of electronic beeping before Irene began to recite texts he had received from her.

 _“‘Good morning.’ ‘I like your funny hat.’ ‘I’m sad tonight. Let’s have dinner.’”_ She hummed and went on, Sherlock flinching with each message. _“‘You looked sexy on ‘Crimewatch.’ Let’s have dinner.’ ‘I’m not hungry, let’s have dinner.’”_

“You…” John paused, breathing deeply, loudly, before continuing, “ _flirted..._ with Sherlock Holmes?”

 _“At him,”_ Irene corrected in a sharp voice. “He never replies.” 

“No, Sherlock _always_ replies,” John shot back, sounding bewildered. “To _everything._ He’s Mr. Punchline. He will _outlive God_ trying to have the last word.”

Sherlock scowled into the darkness, thinking of all the times he had never replied to people's hypotheses. Every time someone assumed he and John were a couple, Sherlock had never corrected them. It was always through some misguided hope that John would figure things out for himself, but John was still too thick for his own good.

“Does that make me special?” Irene asked, disrupting Sherlock’s thoughts.

“I don’t know, maybe.” 

“Are you _jealous?”_ Irene asked coyly. 

John’s response was clipped. “We’re not a couple.” 

“Yes, you are,” Irene crooned back at him. John didn’t reply, and she added, “There. _‘I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner.’”_ Sherlock heard another electronic beep and frowned. 

“Who... who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes,” John said softly, his voice muted by the dust swirling in the air. “But, for the record, if anyone out there _still_ cares, I’m not actually gay.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes with a grimace, the expression freezing when Irene replied, “Well, _I_ am.” He dug a finger into his hip with a muffled growl. There was always _something._ “Look at us both,” Irene added, sounding amused.

John made a scoffing sound just before Sherlock’s phone buzzed, a split-second warning as the screen lit up, and the lewd little sigh of Irene’s text alert drifted from the speaker. He grabbed the device and silenced it, but it was too late. They had heard. 

Sherlock turned and darted through the door at his back, leaving John and Irene behind. He walked quickly, hoping that he could leave the conversation and his swirling emotions behind if he just moved fast enough.


	8. Decent Died a Long Time Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a final chapter count! If my outline works out the way I have planned, it will be accurate. I think we're looking at around 32,000 to 36,000 words, all in. Let's see how it goes. 
> 
> As always, big thank you to ArianeDevere for their episode transcripts!

After trying and failing to chase after Sherlock, John followed Irene in a stony silence back to the waiting car. The ride back to Baker Street was tense, John’s lips pressed tightly together to hold back the angry words rising in his throat. 

He clenched his teeth as the car drifted to the curb, shooting Irene and her associate a sharp glare as he leapt out onto the sidewalk. A note on the door drew him up short, halting his stiff soldier’s march.

 _Crime in progress. Please disturb,_ was scrawled in Sherlock’s blocky, all-caps writing, the note stuck beneath the heavy knocker. Frowning, John glanced around the street before entering, letting the door swing shut behind him as he climbed the stairs. 

“What’s going on?” he asked upon entering the sitting room, taking in the man tied to a chair with duct tape over his mouth. John squinted, trying to determine the man’s identity beneath the bruises rising on his face and the blood trickling from his nose. Halting inside the door, John breathed, “Jesus, what the hell is happening?” 

Sherlock spoke from behind him. “Mrs. Hudson’s been attacked by an American. I’m restoring balance to the universe.” He didn’t look away from the bound man, his stare unblinking. His voice was cold and hard, John turning to him where he sat in a seldom-used armchair pushed against the wall adjacent to the door. He was on his phone, sitting with his long legs crossed, a handgun pointed toward the man in the chair. _Oh, God, how has he got another gun?_ John wondered, slowly realizing that the man bound to a chair in his sitting room was the American from Irene Adler’s house.

John shook his confusion away and turned to Mrs. Hudson, who sat on the sofa in a ripped jumper, looking dazed. She was clearly frightened, a bruise rising on her cheek. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson, my God. Are you alright?” John sat next to her and wrapping a protective arm around her slight shoulders. His anger, briefly subdued by his surprise, flared back into an inferno, and he glared at the American. “Jesus, what have they done to you?”

Mrs. Hudson covered her face and shook her head, her voice high and wavering. “Oh, I’m just being so silly,” she exclaimed tearfully. John tightened his hold, drawing her closer.

“No, no,” he soothed, his wrath sparking and bright in his chest. 

“Downstairs,” Sherlock said, now on his feet. He looked away from the American long enough to frown down at them, the gun still pointing at the restrained man. “Take her downstairs and look after her.”

Nodding, John got to his feet, holding out a hand to Mrs. Hudson. She rose with a sniffle, and John said, “It’s alright,” taking her hand in his and leading her toward the stairs. “It’s alright, I’ll have a look at that.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Mrs. Hudson insisted, her voice coarse with tears. She waved him off and continued toward the door on her own, and John moved toward Sherlock. He was still on the phone, gun pinned to Mrs. Hudson’s attacker, his gaze stony when he looked at John.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” John asked. Sherlock’s eyes were searing when they locked with his.

“I expect so,” he said coldly, voice dropping toward a growl. “Now _go."_

John heaved a heavy breath as they stared at one another, Sherlock looking away first, back to the American. John followed his gaze, imagining what it would be like to tear the man apart. To rend him slowly, painfully, completely. But Sherlock quivered with a tightly controlled rage next to him, and John headed for the stairs. He paused only to glance behind him once, and left Sherlock to deal with the American how he chose, hearing Sherlock say to the phone, “Lestrade? We’ve had a break-in at Baker Street.”

Down in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, John settled her by the sink in her little kitchen, the first aid kit already awaiting him on the counter. “It’ll be alright,” he said, repeating his earlier words. “Sherlock will take care of it.” He soaked a cotton pad in antiseptic and dabbed carefully at the cut on her cheek.

“It stings,” she said, wincing. John nodded in sympathy before something fell past the window and landed with a crash. Not easily startled, John paused and blinked at Mrs. Hudson. She blinked back, and they both turned toward the window. “Ooh. That was right on my bins!” 

John glanced at her, a slight smile tugging at his lips as a groan drifted from outside. He leaned toward the window to peer out, catching a glimpse of a figure collapsed amidst the scattered rubbish bins. 

“Jesus,” he said, unable to keep the admiring tone out of his voice. Mrs. Hudson swatted him, though there was no venom in the gesture.

“Look at you,” she scolded gently, trying not to smile at his grin. “It’s not decent.” 

“I live with Sherlock Holmes,” he shot back, winking. “Decent died a long time ago.”

* * *

After tending to her wounds and settling Mrs. Hudson with a cuppa, John tidied his medical supplies. He felt keyed-up, not only because someone had broken into their flat and attacked Mrs. Hudson, but because of Sherlock and Irene. What had been said and overheard at Battersea. The fact that Irene was alive. It all swirled in his head, and John tapped his fingers against the table in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. He considered facing Sherlock, but the detective was out on the street with Greg, filling the DI in on the situation. Or lying about it. That seemed more likely.

“I’m alright,” Mrs. Hudson assured him for the umpteenth time as John fussed over her. 

“Still,” he muttered, watching the milk swirling in his tea. “It could have been worse.”

“Many things could be worse, John,” Mrs. Hudson reminded him gently, just as Sherlock stepped through the door connecting the alley to her kitchen. 

“She’ll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight,” John said, watching Sherlock wipe his shoes on the mat. He tried not to let his eyes linger too long on Sherlock's long legs. “We need to look after her.” His tone brokered no argument, but Mrs. Hudson protested, waving away his concerns.

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed, turning to the fridge, “but she’s fine.” He sounded dismissive, and John bristled. 

“No, she’s _not._ Look at her,” John insisted, piqued. “She’s got to take some time _away_ from Baker Street. She can go and stay with her sister. Doctor’s orders.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head, and Sherlock kicked the fridge door closed, biting into a meat pie.

“Don’t be _absurd,”_ he said through a mouthful. John's eyes narrowed.

“She’s in shock, for God’s sake, and all over some bloody stupid _camera phone.”_ Frustrated, John growled out a sigh and leaned against the wall. “Where is it, anyway?”

“Safest place I know,” Sherlock replied, and John frowned.

Mrs. Hudson sat up and reached into her jumper, her lips pressed into a stern line. “You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot.” Sherlock took the phone when she offered it, and she breathed a shaky laugh. “I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry.”

Tossing the phone into the air and catching it, Sherlock replied, “Thank you.” He sounded genuine, and John gawked when Sherlock looked to him. “Shame on you, John Watson.”

“Shame on _me?”_ John repeated, feeling affronted. _You bloody berk, I’ll kick your arse, don’t think I won’t._

Sherlock smirked. The expression was a small uptick of his mouth that made John narrow his eyes. “Mrs. Hudson, leave Baker Street?” He scoffed with a smile, moving to slip a protective arm around Mrs. Hudson's shoulders. “England would _fall.”_

Amused, and a little touched by Sherlock’s display, John smiled up at him. Their gazes met and held, and John wondered what thoughts might be hiding behind Sherlock's sharp eyes. 

After another cuppa, and Sherlock devouring a second meat pie, they left Mrs. Hudson to sleep. She fluttered her hands at them dismissively, chasing them from her flat.

John followed Sherlock upstairs in silence. His tongue felt heavy with questions, but he held his peace as they entered 221B. John beelined for the kitchen to pour himself a _large_ glass of alcohol while Sherlock disappeared down the hall to his room. When he returned, he shrugged out of his coat and dropped it over a chair tucked beneath the desk.

“Where is it now?” John asked, referring to the phone. Sherlock moved past him to his music stand, glancing John's way before picking up his violin.

“Where no one will look,” he said softly, fiddling with the strings. John frowned at the fire. A thought occurred to him, and he looked at Sherlock’s stiff back.

“Whatever’s on that phone, it’s more than just pictures.”

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock agreed, not turning around. John watched him, rocking back on his heels, wishing he could see inside Sherlock’s head, that he could read him as easily as Sherlock read everyone else. 

“So, she’s alive, then,” he said gruffly, shifting his weight and dropping his eyes to the floor as Sherlock plucked a string. John breathed deeply through his nose and raised his head. “How are we feeling about that?” Sherlock didn’t reply, and the faint toll of Big Ben reverberated in the distance.

Breathing in, Sherlock sighed, “Happy New Year, John.” 

Unable to drop the subject, John asked, “Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but he did turn. His eyes avoided John’s face as he picked up his bow, flipping it into his hand. When Sherlock brought the bow to the strings, John braced himself for the same sad, aching tune Sherlock had been working on for the past few days. Instead, what hummed from the instrument was a lovely rendition of _Auld Lang Syne._ The familiar tune reminded John of his childhood and the Scottish side of his family, bringing in the New Year when he was a child. 

Sherlock raised his eyes and met John’s lingering stare, his expression unreadable. His mouth going dry, watching Sherlock work magic from the violin with his long, elegant fingers, his lean body relaxing into the music, John sighed and sank down into his chair. 

He wouldn't find the answers he was hoping for tonight, but it was enough to be here, like this, in Sherlock’s larger-than-life presence. As much as John ached to know just how Sherlock felt about Irene and her miraculous return from the dead, he decided not to press. For now. John hoped the New Year would bring new chances for him and Sherlock to finally stop hiding from one another, whatever that might look like.

When Sherlock finished the song with a flourish, he set the violin gently on his chair. John, his drink finished, looked up from where he had been staring into the fire, lost in his thoughts. 

“John.” Sherlock’s quiet voice beckoned his attention, and John looked at his face, waiting. Sherlock, standing over him, frowned, a small, perplexed crease furrowing the skin between his brows. He opened his mouth to speak, seemed to think better of it, and closed his mouth with a click. As he moved to walk past John’s chair, John reached out and caught his sleeve.

“Hey,” he said, barely above a whisper as he waited for Sherlock to meet his eyes, appearing surprised. John shifted his hold to Sherlock’s wrist, gripping with gentle pressure. “Happy New Year, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock studied his face silently before his lips curved into a small smile. “Goodnight, John.” He touched John’s shoulder with tentative fingers, the contact drifting briefly over John’s nape. It brushed along his hairline before disappearing, and Sherlock walked out of the sitting room.

Staring into the fire, listening to Sherlock’s bedroom door close, John closed his eyes.


	9. Miserable Stormcloud, in Perpetuity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ArianeDevere for their episode transcripts! 
> 
> Also, here be angst.

New Year's Eve faded into a dreary January. Sherlock spent the first week stewing over Battersea, the American, Mrs. Hudson being attacked, Irene returning from the dead, and the _damned phone._ The infernal device wouldn’t crack. No matter what he tried, it remained closed to him. 

Swirling over everything was the ever-present sense of failure. It was true that Irene had apparently faked her death, giving Sherlock a second chance at rectifying where he had fallen short before. Still, without knowing where she was, he had little opportunity to press for answers. He could likely track her down with little effort but found himself reluctant to test his mettle so soon after crashing and burning so spectacularly. 

And Mycroft was being purposefully obtuse in refusing to provide even the smallest hint of her whereabouts. 

As for John, he had become insufferable. He seemed dead set on discussing all manners of topics that Sherlock had zero interest in discussing. First and foremost being Irene, and the second being Battersea.

Sherlock took to avoiding him whenever possible and pretending to be deep in his Mind Palace when interaction was unavoidable. After a week of aiming glares and pretending he didn’t hear anything that John said unless it involved the words _tea, new case,_ or _Thai food,_ John backed off.

The relief was welcome, but Sherlock should have known it would only be temporary. 

Where once Sherlock had craved intimacy with John, he now ached for distance. John’s hard stance on his not-gay sexuality had struck Sherlock at his most vulnerable. In the aftermath, he couldn’t find the stamina to shake the lethargic, dragging, miserable stormcloud that clung to his person, seemingly in perpetuity. 

John tried to engage Sherlock again after four days of deliberate avoidance. He plunked himself down in his armchair, across from Sherlock in his own, and stared at him. No, not just stared. John somehow fashioned his eyes into merciless laser beams and blazed his way into Sherlock’s brain until every hallway of his Mind Palace, every corner and crevice and crack, rang with John’s name. 

“What?” Sherlock finally snapped, reaching his limit. God, was that how people felt when he studied them? It was an infuriating sensation, being pinned by someone's eyes. 

John affected a blank expression. “What?”

Biting back the urge to growl, Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin and narrowed his eyes. “Why are you staring at me?”

A low snort met his question, and John continued to stare, not answering. Sherlock thought he might go mad. 

_“John.”_

“Yes, Sherlock?” John’s brows rose in innocent intrigue. The expression made Sherlock grind his teeth together. 

“You _know_ what,” he snarled, huffing at the smug little twist that stirred over John’s lips.

“Just wondering when you might stoop to talk to me again,” John said in a falsely light voice, shrugging as if the situation meant nothing to him. “You know, when you might deign to _lower yourself_ to speaking with those beneath you.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, lips pressed together into a hard line. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he replied, the tips of his fingers turning white as he pressed them together with enough force to make his knuckles ache. 

His brows lowering into a scowl, John stared at him again. There was an expectant air about him this time, and Sherlock waited for him to speak. Instead of challenging him once more, John made a soft, frustrated noise and stood up. 

“Fine.” His back stiffened, and he turned on his heel like a soldier responding to orders. “Have it your way.” 

His footsteps were loud and paced in a rigid march-sequence, a staccato beat on the stairs as John vacated the flat, leaving behind a tense silence and a flustered Sherlock. After displaying such tenacity in his attempts to get through to Sherlock, John’s swift surrender and retreat were… unexpected. 

Sherlock felt off-balance, and he rose quickly, bustling to the window. John was nowhere to be seen to his dismay, already fled in whatever direction his angry soldier’s march had carried him. Sherlock frowned and pressed a fingertip to the cold glass, remembering New Year’s Eve. 

There had been a moment then, something silver and fleeting. They had softened, the two of them, John reaching out to Sherlock, both physically with his hand on Sherlock’s wrist, and emotionally, with gruff kindness. Sherlock had let his guard down then, had allowed himself to touch and feel, to drift his fingers through the hair at John’s nape. It had felt like a precipice, like the possibility of change hung in the very air they breathed.

But, in the morning, John’s words at Battersea had echoed in Sherlock’s head as if they were still standing in that drafty, high-ceilinged structure, and he had collapsed inward. 

Now, the sitting room buzzed with the heavy tension left behind by John leaving, and Sherlock felt hollow.

* * *

After John vacated the flat, he stayed away until evening. When he returned, he went straight upstairs to his room without speaking to Sherlock, where he had draped himself miserably across the couch. He remained there most of the next day before reappearing with a bag packed. Sherlock, still half-melted over the couch cushions, looked at it with alarm.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, a ghastly sensation of dread rising as he wondered if John had finally reached his limit and was leaving for good. 

“Going to Harry’s,” came John’s reply, delivered in a muffed tone as he shrugged into his coat and refused to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Never went for Christmas, so I’m going now.”

“Right,” Sherlock said softly, studying the tight lines of John’s hunched shoulders. “When will you be back?” He tried to make it sound nonchalant; tried to appear distanced from the situation like the concept of John leaving didn’t make his heart hammer in his chest like the onset of a supernova.

John’s reply was cold and dull. “When I’m back.” Without looking at Sherlock, John shouldered the duffle bag and marched out onto the landing. 

The door closed behind him with a click that sounded all too final. 

* * *

Without John to pester _(Bother? Tempt? Entice?)_ him, Sherlock turned his attention back to the problem at hand: the mobile phone. Despite receiving the perfect opportunity to disappear for good by faking her death, Irene had returned. Her disappearing method was a rather ingenious tactic. Sherlock tucked it away into his Mind Palace for future use, should the situation arise.

Irene had returned for the phone, she told John as much. Whatever it contained was too essential to surrender, and Sherlock ached to know what kind of secret could resurrect someone with entire nations calling for her blood.

To his surprise, it was Molly who started the wheels turning.

Having commandeered a lab at Bart's, Sherlock set to trying to break into the phone. When he x-rayed the device, the internal workings made it clear merely opening the case and extracting the hard drive would be impossible. Four devices looked to be wired to the case. If he tried to open it, the contents would likely be destroyed beyond salvage.

Molly’s leaned against the workbench next to him, frowning at his computer screen. “Is that a phone?”

“It’s a camera phone,” Sherlock corrected with a sigh.

“And you’re… x-raying it?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the image, cursing it and its owner silently. “Yes, I am.”

Bemused, Molly asked, “Whose phone is it?”

“A woman’s.” Sherlock didn't look away from the screen.

“Your girlfriend?” she asked hesitantly, and Sherlock blinked, trying to make sense of her wild deductive leap.

“You think she’s my girlfriend because I’m x-raying her possessions?” He blinked rapidly, failing to compute the concept. Nope. Nothing clicked. Molly breathed out a nervous little laugh.

“Well,” she said, clearly flustered, “we all do silly things.”

“Yes,” Sherlock hummed, thinking, _yes, like assuming I’m straight and in love with a dominatrix._ He raised his eyes from the screen, feeling a flash of insight. “They _do_ , don’t they?” He looked at Molly without seeing her, brain running like a well-oiled machine. He had missed the feeling. _“Very_ silly.” 

Irene was a dominatrix. She was a worthy adversary who _loved_ to play games. It was practically her entire identity, her professional signature. Maybe the answer had been staring him in the face all along. 

Sherlock pushed off the lab stool and twisted toward the x-ray machine, retrieving the phone with eager energy flickering through his body. Maybe he had been overthinking things, giving Irene too much credit. Perhaps it was all just a game, and he only lost because he didn't know the rules.

“She sent this to my address,” he said to Molly, waking the screen with a tap. “And she _loves_ to play games.” He typed _221B_ into the passcode box, pulse thudding like a drum in his ears.

“She does?” Molly asked, sounding bewildered. Sherlock ignored her, his eyes fixed on the screen as he pressed _enter._

A harsh buzz shook the phone. _Wrong passcode. 2 attempts remaining._ Heart sinking, Sherlock dropped the phone onto the table before slumping back into his seat. He glared at the x-ray image, a muscle ticking in his jaw. 

It seemed Irene would always be one step ahead, and he still didn’t know the rules. But maybe he was beginning to see the game for what it was. And the stakes were much higher than Sherlock had imagined. 

* * *

John returned from Harry’s after three days. One moment, the flat ached with the absence of his presence. The next, Sherlock arrived home from a day in the lab to find the duffle bag next to the sofa and the shower running. His lips curved upward in an immediate smile. 

It was only through sheer force of will that Sherlock kept himself from rushing into the bathroom to interrogate John about his time away. Given how they had left things, such an ambush would likely not be appreciated. Instead, Sherlock resigned himself to the sofa, fidgeting as he counted out the minutes with no way of gauging how long John had already been in the shower.

He had just begun to try deducing it by studying the strap of John’s duffle from across the sitting room when the water shut off. Sherlock tensed, hands digging into his thighs where they rested in his lap. 

When John exited the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, he moved into the hall without looking into the sitting room. He passed through the door to the stairwell and disappeared up to his bedroom. Sherlock blinked and stared at the John-less hallway, his fingers working into anxious twists against one another. 

John could not _still_ be angry? He had been gone for three days, and Sherlock had been more abrasive before, had he not? What was so awful about _this_ particular disagreement that John couldn’t see fit to put it behind them?

Minutes passed into half an hour, passed into an hour and then two, and Sherlock’s neck began to kink from the tension humming through his body. He felt stretched to breaking, ready to snap. 

His hands hit the arms of his chair in preparation to launch himself to his feet, to storm across the sitting room and confront John when he heard John’s bedroom door open. He sagged back into the chair with a loud huff, eyes flitting between the two doorways into the flat, waiting for John to appear. Sherlock counted his steps, the soft whisper of John’s bare feet over the floorboards until he appeared. 

John's hair was damp and ruffled, his shower-warmed body clothed in a pair of old, loose sweatpants and a thinning t-shirt. One clung to John’s broad shoulders and tapered torso, and the other gave shockingly free-agency to John’s southern region.

To Sherlock’s disappointment, that region was clearly at parade rest. He forced his eyes up to John’s face as he pushed the wistful, indecent thoughts away. John wasn’t gay, and Sherlock wasn’t ready to poke _that_ hornet’s nest again anytime soon. 

Swallowing, he looked up as John moved into the sitting room and nudged his duffle with one bare foot. He stared down at it for a long moment, Sherlock’s eyes dancing over the bag and John’s form, reading a strange blend of tension and peace in his body language. He appeared untroubled, a peculiar, unexpected calm emanating from his person.

When John raised his head and met Sherlock’s fierce stare, his eyes shone a warm blue, and he looked wholly unfettered. Sherlock sucked in an unsteady breath at the perplexing serenity he glimpsed there. 

“John,” he began, speaking without thinking, not knowing what words might follow. To his relief, John spoke up when Sherlock’s voice choked and faded. 

“Order a takeaway?”

Blinking, Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, wondering at the tranquillity aimed his way. Had John forgotten Battersea and their abrasive last few weeks? Had he simply processed and moved past it? Or, and the thought made Sherlock’s stomach curdle, had he decided Sherlock wasn’t worth the trouble, and this was the calm before the storm? 

The way John looked at him seemed to contest his concerns, and Sherlock swallowed. His head swirling with conflicting thoughts, abruptly at war with himself, Sherlock nodded. “Thai?” His voice was a strained croak. If John noticed, he didn’t react, just inclined his head.

“I’ll call.” He moved into the kitchen to retrieve the takeout menu, and Sherlock breathed out in a loud, rushing surge of air, stunned and left with far more questions than answers.


	10. In Love with Sherlock Holmes

After days of silence, Sherlock’s dark mood weighing heavily on his every waking moment, John’s time at Harry’s did him good. Even though she was back on the booze, just as Sherlock had predicted at Christmas Eve, it was a refreshing change from Sherlock glaring at him whenever John looked his way. 

He was baffled. New Year’s Eve had seemed so promising. John thought there might be a shift in their dynamic and in their relationship. He knew Sherlock had overheard John saying things at Battersea that, taken out of context, sounded terrible. 

Irene calling them a couple had pushed John to the breaking point. Already worked up, he had felt blinding fury for her, of all people, making that claim. It was infuriating, since _she_ was the one Sherlock had been hung up on since they’d met, leaving John to pick up the pieces of a heartbroken, self-proclaimed sociopath. Never mind his own feelings on the matter of Sherlock’s heart. 

Just once, John wished everyone would stop rubbing it in his face that Sherlock was not, in fact, John’s. They were flatmates, partners, sometimes even friends, though lately, even that seemed tenuous. But explaining their relationship, laying his heart bare to strangers, family, acquaintances, wasn’t something John was inclined to do. It was easier to say he wasn’t gay, as people always seemed to take that as meaning _not interested in men,_ and dropped the topic. While the erasure of his very present bisexuality rankled, John found it preferable to telling people Sherlock had found him lacking from that first night together and declined John’s romantic overtures. 

To see him pining for Irene drove John wild with jealousy. Sherlock’s mood and refusal to discuss Battersea or Irene, or really anything but takeaway and tea, had been John’s breaking point. His own conflicted emotions overshadowed his desire to be there for Sherlock, and he left. 

If Sherlock didn’t want him there, as he so clearly didn’t, then John would save him the trouble of asking him to leave. 

Sitting on the guest bed at Harry’s, John stared at his hands with unfocused eyes.

The truth of it was that Sherlock wasn’t his to feel jealous over. Friends might feel upset when their friend was hurting, but jealousy when their friend seemed to have feelings for someone? John was pretty sure that wasn’t a typical emotion in platonic partnerships. He knew he was attracted to Sherlock—who _wouldn’t_ be, with _those_ cheekbones and _that_ arse? John had been attracted to platonic people before and never felt the urge to pin them down, gnash his teeth, and snarl _mine_ at anyone who looked their way.

Which left him with a disconcerting realization: his feelings for Sherlock were _not_ platonic. Despite Sherlock’s clear rejection that first night, John was still carrying a torch for the detective. Whenever John developed such feelings for someone, he flirted, felt the other person out. If there was interest, things progressed. It was often a one-night stand or a casual arrangement that fizzled and dissipated before they each went their separate ways. 

There had been longer relationships, genuine connections, but none since Sherlock. John had assumed that his recent bad luck in dating was down to the lifestyle he led. Now, he wasn’t so sure. 

Shoulders falling slack, John tipped backward onto the mattress. He frowned up at the ceiling, listening to Harry move around in the kitchen on the other side of the wall as he thought back over his recent relationships. 

John knew Sherlock influenced his dating success. Having now grudgingly admitted to himself that there might be more to it than that, John felt a deep uncertainty. What if his recent relationships had failed because John was just as emotionally unavailable as he was physical? Maybe continually running off on cases and cancelling dates hadn’t been the final straw for Sarah, Samantha, Alice and Jeanette. Perhaps it had been his own emotional unavailability.

_Don’t make me compete with Sherlock Holmes! It’s heartwarming, you’ll do anything for him._

And it was true, Jeanette was right. Because, yes, John _would_ do anything for Sherlock. Hell, he had _killed_ for the man and would do so again without question if it seemed the right course of action. He hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t even fretted afterward. After months of nightmares, John slept like a baby that night, knowing Sherlock was safe. Sherlock came first, then and now, and John couldn’t fathom a time where that might change.

“Jesus Christ,” John groaned, shoving his hands against his eyes. He was an idiot, a blind, blundering, oblivious blockhead.

He was in love with Sherlock Holmes. It was not his looks, the risk, danger, and thrill that came with him, though John loved all of that, too. No. Despite all of Sherlock’s faults, his ability to drive John absolutely _wild_ with frustration, John was in love _with_ the man. 

John was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Bloody hell, if that didn’t sound more terrifying than Afghanistan, Moriarty, and every criminal in London combined. 

John groaned again and shook his head. He was fucked. Utterly, ultimately doomed. A knock at the door made him sigh before Harry poked her head into the room. “You good? Sounds like you might be dying in here.”

“Yeah, I’m good.” John barked a harsh little laugh. “I’m _great.”_ The words dripped with sarcasm. 

Raising a sympathetic brow, Harry revealed a hand from behind the door, fingers wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle. “Wanna get wasted?”

John hated to encourage his sister’s alcoholism but knew the offer was really a matter of them sharing the bottle, or Harry finishing it on her own. And, after realizing the cause of his conflicted emotions, John felt he could use a drink. Or two. Or five. 

Sighing, he clapped his hands against his knees and rose. “I’ll get the glasses.” 

* * *

“You know, it’s not even my fault,” John slurred, four glasses of wine later. “It’s not like I was _trying_ to fall in love with him.” He shook his head, nearly sloshing wine over the rim of his glass. “Who’d wanna be in love with a menace like that? He shot the wall, Harry. The _sodding wall!”_

Lips pursed to hold back a smile, Harry tapped a fingertip to his forehead. “You’ve always liked a challenge, little brother.” John batted her hand away, and she grinned. 

“Yeah, a _challenge,_ not a bloody suicide mission.” Groaning, John set his drink aside and buried his face in his hands. “I’m cursed, Harry. _Cursed._ I’m in love with a madman, and he’s not even interested.” Hands dropping into his lap, he grimaced and filled both their glasses with the remainder of a second bottle. “I’m gonna have to move out,” he added miserably. 

“John. Look. As someone who's been 'out' for quite a while to someone who still flies under the radar...” Harry gripped John's shoulder with an unsteady grasp. "Listen to me when I say that Sherlock is _not_ going to kick you out. He probably has no idea. I mean, _you_ only just figured it out for yourself.”

“You don’t know him, Harry,” John muttered, frowning down at his hands. “He sees _everything_. It’s impossible to hide anything from him.”

Smiling, her expression just shy of smug, Harry said, “Then don’t hide.”

* * *

Harry’s words clung to John on the train ride back to London. Somehow, what she said made sense. John loved Sherlock, and love didn’t have to mean grand gestures and confessions. So Sherlock’s heart belonged to another, so what? Did that mean John loved him any less? Of course not. He could still love Sherlock while Sherlock loved another and, while it wasn't ideal, John could handle that. 

He’d handled worse. A bullet in the shoulder hadn’t been enough to wipe from this Earth, and Sherlock pining after a dominatrix wouldn’t either. What Sherlock needed was a friend, a partner, someone to make him eat when he was near collapse, to keep him safe and reign him in when he became monstrous. John could do that, had been doing that very thing for nearly a year now.

Did it matter that Sherlock didn’t love him back, didn’t feel about John the way John felt for him? Staring out the train window at the passing scenery, John realized it didn’t. Their friendship meant more to him than Sherlock reciprocating John's likely unwelcome feelings, and John would just have to be okay with that. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that John felt the way he did, and John realized he shouldn’t try to make him accountable. 

When he arrived back at Baker Street, the flat was empty. John dumped his duffle in the sitting room and beelined for the shower, hoping to wash away the dredges of his lingering hangover. Over the spray, he heard Sherlock return and smiled. Once he shut off the water, he headed straight for his room, Sherlock’s stare a bullet in the back when John passed through the hall. 

In his room, John took a moment to settle. To remind himself that he had to own his feelings and not make them Sherlock’s responsibility. If Sherlock didn’t want to talk to John about his feelings about Irene, that was his choice. John would not try to force him again. 

However, when he finally entered the sitting room to find Sherlock watching him warily from his chair, John paused. Backlit by the windows and the evening light, he looked ephemeral. The sight of him made John's chest tighten, and he stared at his duffle until he found his composure. 

He would be fine. Love was in the small things. 

Feeling as if an immense weight had eased from his shoulders, John raised his head and met Sherlock’s guarded gaze. “Order a takeaway?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a shorter chapter, but I think the next one will be a decent length.


	11. Fight Fire with Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, a long chapter! We're in the home stretch, folks! 
> 
> Thanks to ArianeDevere for their transcripts of the episode.

John no longer seemed dead-set on pressuring Sherlock into a conversation he didn’t want to have. He had not yet managed to parse out the details of John’s visit to his sister, but something seemed to have changed. John became gentler, both in his demeanour and his gestures toward Sherlock. Sherlock’s undesirable actions, which once would have led to a row, were now brushed off or dismissed, often with a tight smile or an affectionate glance. Irene Adler’s name, once spoken frequently and with a stern, stiff tone, now was rarely mentioned, if ever. 

It was baffling. Sherlock was baffled. Their dynamic seemed to have settled into something comfortable despite the roughness precluding the calm, and the absence of John’s usually aggressive demeanour weighed heavily on Sherlock’s mind. 

Sat in his chair with legs curled up beneath him, Sherlock studied John, where he stood in the kitchen, stirring tea. Several months ago, he had stood in that very place while Sherlock paraded about in nothing but a bedsheet, neither of them yet aware of the chaos about to befall their lives. Now, John hummed quietly as he placed the milk back in the fridge and moved into the sitting room with two mugs of tea. He set one next to Sherlock’s chair with a lingering smile, and Sherlock nearly exploded with frustration. 

“What is the matter with you?” he snapped, irritation bubbling up, a faultline desperate for release. John paused in the process of lowering himself into his chair and looked up, brows rising. 

“Sorry?”

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock dropped his legs to the floor and steepled his fingers together. “Why are you bringing me tea?”

Bemused, John sat down with a frown. “I often make you tea,” he hedged. Sherlock scowled.

“Only when I demand it, or if you’re already making some for yourself.”

“Well, there you have it. I was already making myself a cuppa, thought you might want one.” As if that settled the discussion, John picked up a newspaper and shook it open.

But Sherlock’s confused frustration wasn’t so easily appeased. He shifted and drew his robe tighter around his lean form, lips pursed in a fierce pout. “You’re being nice to me,” he complained. John blinked at him over top of his newspaper, one eyebrow quirked.

“Is that a problem?” he asked, clearly amused. Sherlock’s scowl deepened. 

“Yes,” he snapped, feeling petulant. Instead of rising to the bait, John chuckled and turned his attention back to reading. 

“How dare I.” 

Sherlock glared at John’s forehead, fidgeting restlessly with his sleeves. John was _infuriating_ , and Sherlock couldn’t put his finger on _why_. Caught in the onset of an incredible sulk, he leapt from the chair and grabbed for his violin, attacking the strings as he ground out his mood through sharp screeches and discordant notes. He peeked at John occasionally to gauge his reaction, receiving only a gentle, amused smile in response. 

When he finally discarded the instrument, dumping it unceremoniously onto his vacated chair, Sherlock stomped over to the couch and draped himself upon it as dramatically as he could manage. With his head shoved into the back, he dug his nails into the leather and huffed.

John snorted behind him, and Sherlock bit hard into his lip, piqued.

* * *

The days passed into weeks, passed into months, and John’s strangely persistent kindness lingered as May faded into June. No amount of abuse on Sherlock’s part, no amount of body parts smeared all over the inside of the fridge, not even nearly blowing up John’s RAMC mug could shake his attentive, gentle manner. Instead, John simply let Sherlock’s venom roll over him, brushing off his sharp words and pointed comments. He bagged the body parts and scrubbed the shelves with bleach without complaint. He saved his favourite mug and hid it from Sherlock, only revealing it when it was gripped safely in his strong hands.

Sherlock fought and battled and did his very best to disrupt the pervasive peace swiftly taking over 221B until he woke one morning and realized his efforts would be better spent elsewhere. John’s new temperament was unshakeable, and Sherlock had exhausted much of his chaos-inducing abilities trying to get a rise from him. 

Perhaps Sherlock would fight fire with fire. If John was hell-bent on killing Sherlock with kindness, two could play that game.

He turned his head and saw that the clock beside his bed read 5:42 am. John usually rose around 6, ever the early riser, a habit left over from his military service. Sherlock shifted out of bed, stripped, and hurried into the bathroom for a shower. 

Clean and dressed in an immaculate suit, he emerged to find John padding down the stairs, shirt rucked up as he yawned, his expressive face blurred by sleep with his eyes still blinking open. Sherlock paused to watch him, felt his throat go dry as his gaze lingered a beat too long on the skin bared by the stretched-out collar of John’s t-shirt. 

John paused and stretched his arms over his head, revealing how low his cotton bottoms sat on his hips. Treated to a very enticing visual of hip bones, lower stomach, and a trail of hair guiding his eyes toward the hem of John's pyjama bottoms, Sherlock nearly launched himself into the kitchen before John noticed his obvious gawking.

Sherlock set about boiling water and tossing bread into the toaster in the kitchen, ignoring John’s amused smirk when he entered. 

“What’s this?” he asked as Sherlock pushed him toward a chair and set tea before him. 

“Tea, John,” Sherlock replied sharply. “You drink it every day, surely you recognize it?” He winced at the unintentionally sharp words. He wasn’t off to a good start—this ‘being nice’ lark was proving harder than anticipated.

John’s cheerful reply of, “Lovely,” sounded genuine, and Sherlock scowled before he remembered that he was trying to be kind. Pasting a too-wide smile on his face that made John eye him warily, Sherlock spread jam on the toast and placed it delicately before John on a plate. 

“Bon appetit,” he said sweetly, and John cast him a suspicious glance when he picked up one of the slices by the corner as if it might burn him.

“Are you trying to poison me?” he asked in a cautious tone, making Sherlock’s smile falter. 

Wounded, Sherlock snapped, “Of course not.” John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock pulled in a deep, calming breath, trying to smile again. “I’m simply being nice.”

“Riiight,” John said slowly, wary eyes studying Sherlock’s face for a moment. Seeming to find something that appeased his concerns, he deigned to bite into the toast, a tiny nibble that filled Sherlock with unexpected pleasure. He settled at the table across from John and lifted his own tea.

Maybe kindness was easier than he’d thought.

* * *

He and John continued in a similar vein for two weeks. Sherlock’s kind gestures became more comfortable, less contrived. With their newfound peace, Sherlock felt himself softening. More and more, he found his thoughts turning to his initial plans to seduce John. All those months ago, Sherlock had been so eager to take things to the next level with John, to push their relationship toward something deeper. 

What they had now was pleasant, if not just as welcome as his original hopes. While Sherlock’s heart still ached from the hard denials he had overheard John make at Battersea, he couldn’t bring himself to risk rejection by chasing a less platonic relationship. 

They settled into a camaraderie previously lacking in their partnership. Sherlock found himself content, if not happy, and John appeared to feel the same.

To Sherlock’s dismay, the harmony did not last. 

After spending the morning at NSY, wrapping up a case for Lestrade that was hardly above a four, Sherlock returned home to find the flat empty. He paused, frowned, and dimly remembered that today was grocery day. Surmising John would be back soon, he shed his coat and moved to hang it on its hook when something caught his attention. A smell and the faint sensation of cold air where none should be, the windows having been shut upon his leaving. While John might have opened a window and forgotten to close it upon leaving, the scent that lingered in the air contained a sweet aroma that Sherlock felt he recognized. 

He moved from the landing into the hallway, following the smell of perfume and fresh air, pausing in the kitchen when he realized the window was open. Striding forward, Sherlock pushed the unlatched pane open and frowned. He heard the street level door close and John’s footsteps upon the stairs but didn’t call out to him, caught by the sudden mystery presented by the open window and the lingering feminine scent. 

Walking back into the hall, Sherlock saw his bedroom door was open. Confident that he had closed it before leaving, he hesitated and inhaled. The perfume filled his nose, his lungs, and he narrowed his eyes. To the sound of John trotting up the stairs, Sherlock approached the open door warily. He caught John’s entrance from the edge of his vision as Sherlock entered his bedroom and turned toward the bed. 

To his dismayed confusion, someone was curled up beneath the blankets. And it wasn’t John, who had just tossed his keys onto the kitchen table.

“Hey, Sherlock.” John peered down the hall to where Sherlock stood staring at the person in his bed. He didn’t reply right away, and John strode toward him, a bottle of wine gripped in one hand and a warm little smile on his face.

“We have a client,” Sherlock said, and John’s expression shifted toward one of bemusement, eyes still soft as if he thought Sherlock might be toying with him. 

“What, in your bedroom?” he joked, breathing a little sigh. Sniffing, John entered the bedroom, turned toward the bed, and froze, his mouth opening around a drawn-out, resigned, “Ohh.” Sherlock saw his lips quirk in a sharp little smile from the corner of his eyes, the one John only wore when he was feeling dangerous. It was confusing to see it in this context, and Sherlock filed the occurrence away for later as they both looked at the person asleep in Sherlock’s bed.

It was Irene Adler. 

* * *

After waking Irene, finding she had entered through the kitchen window, John and Sherlock retreated to the sitting room while she showered.

“What is she doing here?” John asked from the desk. He seemed unsettled, fidgeting restlessly, fingers tapping against the mug in his hand. Standing before the windows, Sherlock shrugged. 

“I have no idea.”

“It’s the phone,” John said, his tone flat and certain. “It has to be. That’s what she wanted when she brought me to Battersea.” 

Sherlock stiffened at the reminder but brushed away his emotional response. “Clearly. She wouldn’t have risked exposure otherwise.” Hands clasped together, he rocked on his feet, head tilting as the shower shut off in the bathroom. “I’ll handle this. Whatever is on that phone, it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Maybe we can finally get the answers we’ve been needing.”

“The answers _you’ve_ been needing,” John shot back, some of his repressed anger filtering through the correction. Sherlock quirked a brow but didn’t reply as Irene emerged from the bathroom clad in one of his robes. 

“Ah, Ms. Adler.” He indicated his chair, studying her with sharp eyes. John scoffed at the desk, but Sherlock ignored him. “Won’t you please have a seat?”

She glanced at him, smirked, shot John a look, and sank into the chair. 

“Comfortable?” Sherlock asked, smiling through his barred teeth. Irene tilted her head.

“Very. Thank you.” She glanced at John again, and Sherlock fought to hide the way he bristled. He pulled a chair out from the desk and settled, watching her with sharp eyes.

“So, who’s after you?” he asked, cutting right to the meat of the matter. 

What followed his fateful question unravelled what had started as a routine day into something chaotic and unanticipated. Certain moments stood out to Sherlock in the aftermath: John’s innovative plan to retrieve the phone from the safety deposit box Sherlock had rented, Irene stating she would make Sherlock beg for mercy twice, John’s vehement, spitting offer of his middle name as a baby name (that one was somewhat baffling), and John’s apparent astonishment when Sherlock deduced the string of numbers and letters from Irene’s phone. 

Armed with his deductions, Sherlock brushed off John’s questions and retreated to his armchair. His hands found the violin settled against the fireplace, his long fingers plucking the strings at random as he sank deep into his mind.

A jumbo jet. Why a jumbo jet? What was the significance? Why would American operatives threaten death to a simple dominatrix over a seating arrangement? It made no sense. There were too many strings, too many possibilities and not enough connective evidence.

Jumbo jet. Double-oh-seven. Zero, zero, seven. Jumbo jet. 

The connection struck like lightning, and Sherlock’s fingers stilled in plucking the strings. _Bond Air is go. Check with the Coventry lot. Coventry._

_Coventry._

Surfacing from his Mind Palace, Sherlock breathed, “Coventry,” before blinking as he realized night had fallen. Across from him, still wrapped in one of his robes with her legs folded up to her chest, Irene raised an eyebrow.

“Never been,” she said. “Is it nice?” Sherlock frowned and looked around the room. It was dark, a fire in the grate the only illumination. It was strangely intimate, and the realization made Sherlock narrow his eyes.

“Where’s John?” 

Irene raised her eyebrows. “He went out a couple of hours ago.”

Bewildered, Sherlock shifted his gaze to the fire and back to her face as a smile crept over her lips. “I was just talking to him.”

“He said you do that,” Irene said, sounding amused before changing the subject. “What’s Coventry got to do with anything?”

“It’s a story,” Sherlock sighed, leaning back in his chair after setting the violin aside. His eyes turned to the fire, unfocused. “Probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they’d broken the German code, but they didn’t want the Germans to know that they’d broken the code, so they let it happen anyway.” His eyes shifted away to the door, searching for signs of when John had left.

“Have you ever had anyone?” Irene asked, recapturing his attention with the non-sequitur. Sherlock squinted, blinked, and frowned.

“Sorry?”

“And when I say _had,_ I’m being indelicate,” Irene elaborated, her expression slipping toward sly. 

Sherlock blinked again. “I don’t understand.” He actually did but was curious to see where she planned to take the conversation. There was a game to be played here, and Sherlock was keen to learn the rules. 

“Well, I’ll be delicate, then,” Irene crooned, shifting forward. She had been holding the Union Jack pillow, _John’s_ pillow, in her arms, and she placed it on the chair as she slid to the floor and knelt in front of his bent knees. Her hand settled on top of his, soft fingers curling over Sherlock’s knuckles. “Let’s have dinner,” she breathed, repeating one of the more nonsensical texts she had sent to him before turning up fake-dead. The only person Sherlock ever had dinner with was John, maybe Mrs. Hudson, certainly not a dominatrix who beat him with a riding crop. There was a ring on one of Irene’s fingers, and the metal was unexpectedly warm against his skin. 

“Why?” Sherlock asked, playing stupid, setting the bait in the trap. 

“Might be hungry.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to smirk. Irene was predictable, seeking to distract him with her skill in seduction. The question was why she was trying, and Sherlock swallowed, set on playing along until he found his answers. “I’m not.”

“Good,” she purred, lips twitching in a coy little smile. Sherlock held back a smirk. Feigning hesitancy and confusion, he leaned forward, watching her pupillary response. Her eyes dilated, Irene’s breathing quickening the slightest bit, barely noticeable if you weren’t looking. But he was Sherlock Holmes, and he was always looking. He turned her hand over and pressed his fingers to her pulse point as he gripped her wrist. 

Her heart was racing, and the pace increased at the press of his fingertips to her skin. _Got you,_ he thought triumphantly. Maybe John had been right to suspect there was more to Irene’s interest in him after all. The signs of her arousal were evident.

“Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn’t hungry?” He tilted forward, letting his eyes drop to her chin, making it look as if he were yearning for a kiss. She was good, but Sherlock had learned much about the art of seduction since their first encounter, and she was all too easy to play. He knew the rules now, just didn’t know what the goal of the game was. But he would find out. 

Irene’s eyes dropped to his lips, and a thrill of triumph burned up Sherlock’s spine as she leaned forward, breathing, “Oh, Mr. Holmes…” he stroked his fingers over her wrist to find her pulse again. She faltered, nearly purring, “If it was the end of the world, if this was the _very last night_ , would you have dinner with me?” Her eyes rose to his, her pupils blown wide. 

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson’s shrill voice drifted from the first floor, and Sherlock cursed silently at the interruption. He had been so close, on the precipice of full control, only for it to be snatched away. His ego snarled. 

“Too late,” Irene said in a rueful voice, eyes shifting away.

“That’s not the end of the world,” Sherlock scoffed, looking toward the doorway, “that’s Mrs. Hudson.” _Queen of the cockblock,_ he added silently, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He released Irene’s wrist as she slid back from him and stood, moving into the kitchen. Tearing his suspicious eyes away, Sherlock looked up as Mrs. Hudson and one of the men who had taken him to the palace entered the sitting room.

“Sherlock, this man was at the door,” Mrs. Hudson said, sounding affronted. “Is the bell still not working?” Casting the man an exasperated look, she added, “He shot it.”

Heaving a put-upon sigh, Sherlock glared at the man. “Have you come to take me away again?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” the man replied. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Well, I decline,” he said in a sarcastic voice, glancing toward the kitchen to see where Irene had disappeared to. He barely glimpsed her, lurking in the hallway. 

The man ignored his refusal and approached, reaching into his jacket to retrieve an envelope that he held out. “I don’t think you do.”

Exasperated, Sherlock snatched the offering and scowled. Inside, he found a boarding class for flight 007. His breath caught, and he glanced up again, finding Irene’s sharp eyes in the dark. 

* * *

It wasn’t until he saw the flight of the dead that Sherlock recognized the web he had been caught in. At Mycroft’s, staring into the fire, realizing he had never known the rules of the game Irene forced him into, he pursed his lips and wondered at the spider that might weave such a web.

But he knew. Even before Irene said the name, Sherlock knew. Because it couldn’t be anyone else. The pool was never meant to be their final dance, and here it was, Moriarty’s next step in an intricate recital Sherlock had never signed up for. Through James Moriarty, Irene had trapped both Mycroft and himself into a corner. Now they were the spiders, fleeing for cover from the proverbial boot. 

And yet, something nagged at him. Some small whisper of deduction that failed to settle and didn’t fit into the puzzle. Sherlock stared into the fire, he answered Irene’s questions, and he wondered. 

When understanding came, Sherlock once more felt he had been struck by lightning. Everything fell into place, and not just the case, not just Irene and Moriarty’s intricate web. Sherlock’s own failed pursuit of John, the tragic blow to his ego that had sent him spiralling among the tailspin that was Irene’s game.

Sentiment. 

Irene was, indeed, a master of seduction. Sherlock could not deny that. But at Baker Street, with her knelt before him and his hand on her pulse, there had been truth in the facade. Yes, there was a game being played, and Irene played it well. But she played it too well, had tricked herself along with Sherlock and Mycroft and John. 

Moments flashed through Sherlock’s mind, a recap of the past few months. John’s jealous comments, his reactions to Sherlock’s fascination with The Woman who beat him. His own refusal to talk about Battersea, John’s desperate pleas to Irene to stop faking her death, to reveal herself to Sherlock. John’s adjusted behaviour, his 180-degree change from tetchy and argumentative, prying and unrelenting, to kind, attentive, and caring. 

_Sentiment._

Mycroft’s voice filtered into his awareness as Sherlock’s mind settled with sharp clarity. “And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees.” Sherlock’s eyes opened as Mycroft rose to his feet, inclining his head to Irene in graceful defeat. “Nicely played.” He moved to leave the room, no doubt to meet Irene’s demands, and Sherlock sucked in a breath.

“No,” he said softly on the exhale, and both Irene and Mycroft paused. They turned to look at him where he sat on the sofa before the fire. 

“Sorry?” Irene asked, brows rising. 

_No, you’re not,_ Sherlock thought, repressing a feral smile. _But you will be_. He turned toward her, his expression carefully composed. “I said, _no_ .” Irene’s chin lifted, brief uncertainty flickering over her face. But her smile held, and Sherlock continued, “Very, _very_ close, but no.” He rose to his feet, finding his stride as he advanced on the confused woman. “You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much.”

“No such thing as _too much_ ,” Irene simpered, instinctively angling her body toward him as he moved closer. Sherlock bit back a smile at her obvious response. People always turned toward the object of their desire. It was automatic like quickened breathing or dilated pupils. Or the unsteady beat of a racing pulse. He could see it in her neck, fluttering delicately beneath the skin.

“Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game, I sympathize entirely…” Sherlock drifted closer, holding her gaze, his eyes unblinking. “But sentiment?” His brows lowered, just slightly, amusement lurking behind his stare. “Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the _losing side.”_ He bared his teeth, upper lip curling back ever so slightly.

“Sentiment?” Irene repeated, her scoff clear. “What are you talking about?”

Catching his brother’s bewildered look, Sherlock tried to conceal his smugness from Irene as he stated, “You.”

Eyelashes fluttering, Irene breathed, “Oh, dear god. Look at the poor man.” Her lips twisted into a false smile, her tone mocking. “You don’t _actually_ think I was interested in you? Why?” Sherlock tilted his head, eyes narrowed, raking over her face, reading everything she tried to hide. Everyone always thought they were so hard to read, thought that their masks were impervious to his scrutiny. It was almost pitiful how easy they made it, every twitch, every flutter of eyelids, every cadence of breath giving away the truth. Irene continued scornfully, “Because you’re the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?” Her eyes flickered over his body, and Sherlock knew he had her. 

Stepping closer, so close they were nearly pressed up against one another, Sherlock breathed, “No.” He saw her eyes widen as the pupils dilated wider at his proximity. This close, he could feel the faint quiver of her body, the uneven rhythm beneath her controlled words. He reached out to find her wrist, long fingers wrapping around the delicate bones, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed her ear. Irene’s eyes dropped, fixed on his mouth, followed it as he neared. Easy, so easy, so obvious. How he had missed it until now was baffling. “Because I took your pulse,” Sherlock whispered, feeling the unsteady leap of it beneath his fingertips, just as he had earlier, in 221B. He felt rather than saw Irene frown, her cheek brushing his jaw as she automatically drifted closer. “Elevated,” he murmured, the smugness bleeding through at last. “Your pupils dilated.” He sucked in a breath and leaned past to grab her phone off the table as she stood frozen in place, stunned.

Her breathing caught and held, eyes widening as her back stiffened. Waking the screen with his thumb, Sherlock stepped back. 

“I imagine John Watson thinks love’s a mystery to me,” he said, raising his voice to include his brother. It was true that John likely thought Sherlock had no idea what John’s sudden, unrelenting kindness meant. What love looked like, how it slipped into your life like a silent, low-hanging fog without notice. And he hadn’t, not until Irene bared herself to him so clumsily when she knelt before his knees. “But the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive,” Sherlock added, turning his back on the stunned woman, the phone clutched in one hand. He felt her following as if pulled, a magnet tugged forward by the irrefutable laws of physics, and Sherlock turned back to face her. “When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you. The combination to your safe? Your measurements. But this…” he flipped the phone, smirking as it landed in his hand. _“This_ is _far more_ intimate.” He held the device up, showed the shocked woman the lock screen. “This is your heart.” Holding her gaze, Sherlock pressed a key, entering the first part of the code. “And you should _never_ let it rule your head.” 

Irene stared at him, her expression fixed. In her widened eyes, he saw the faint stirrings of panic. 

“You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you’ve worked for,” he continued, entering the second character, “but you just _couldn’t resist_ , could you?” Irene’s breath quickened, giving away the answer. Finally. This was it. He had won, had learned the rules and finished the game. He smirked, a brief, victorious curve of his lips. “I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage,” he mused, entering the third character, their gazes still locked. “Thank you for the final proof.” 

He moved to enter the fourth and final part of the code, but Irene’s hand shot out and caught his wrist. Sherlock looked at her fingers, wrapped tightly over his skin.

“Everything I said,” she began softly, panicked eyes locked on his face, “it’s not real.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, desperation bleeding through. “I was just playing the game.” 

“I know,” Sherlock whispered back, pulling his hand free. She released him, and he added the final piece of the passcode, the phone beeping quietly in his hand. “And this is just losing,” he finished, turning the screen toward her, revealing the completed code: _I AM_ **_SHER_ ** _LOCKED._

Despair and dismay warred with utter defeat in her expression before Sherlock turned to hand the phone to his brother. “There you are, brother. I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight.” He heard Irene’s soft, helpless gasp of shock and resisted the urge to sneer. 

“I’m certain they will,” Mycroft sighed as he took the phone, and Sherlock turned away toward the door.

“If you’re feeling kind, lock her up,” he called back over his shoulder to his brother. “Otherwise, let her go. I doubt she’ll survive long without her protection.” This time, he did sneer, the words twisted by his disdain. Now that he had won, his ego soothed, Sherlock felt he could allow himself the arrogance.

“Are you expecting me to beg?” Irene called after him. Sherlock paused just in front of the door. Without turning, he stared at the hallway.

“Yes,” he said in a calm, unperturbed voice. The silence stretched out until he saw Irene sag from the edge of his vision.

“Please,” she whispered. Sherlock didn’t move, and she went on, “You’re right.” When he turned toward her at last, her eyes were pleading. “I won’t even last six months.”

His expression composed, cold triumph stiffening his shoulders and making his heart race, Sherlock replied, “Sorry about dinner.” He turned away and left her with Mycroft. As the door closed behind him, his steps quickened, hurrying toward the door. 

He had won. It was over. Sherlock had played the game, and he had won. His pulse raced, a rush of adrenaline carrying him out of the manor and into the front yard where the car that had fetched him waited.

Sherlock felt on top of the world. Invincible. He could do anything, _would_ do anything. 

Must do one thing.

When he climbed into the waiting vehicle, Sherlock thought he might vibrate out of his skin. Everything was clear now, and he knew exactly what he had to do. 

John. It was time to stop with the games, to lay down his cards. There would be no more wearing sheets just to gain attention, no more plans, no more overcomplicated back and forth niceties. There were things Sherlock needed to say, something that couldn’t wait. Wouldn’t wait and shouldn’t.

His seatbelt buckled, he leaned forward and addressed the driver. “221B Baker Street. Don’t dawdle.” 

“Yes, sir,” the driver replied, and the car rumbled to life with a heady purr. Pleased, Sherlock settled back into his seat. His hands were clammy, heart racing fit to burst, and he twined his fingers together in his lap to still his anxious fidgeting.

It was time Sherlock told John what he should have told him on their first night together.


	12. A Ridiculous Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. Also, here be smut.

Unwilling to watch Sherlock jump through hoops to impress Irene Adler, a woman who had betrayed him repeatedly, John left 221B. He needed to get away, both from Sherlock’s eagerness to please, and Irene’s hungry eyes as she watched him perform for her. Despite John's decision to love Sherlock from afar, it didn’t hurt any less to see Sherlock pining for someone else, so desperate to be noticed. 

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice when John left, and he tried not to let that eat away at him. Though it did, with the realization that he might as well have been a ghost for all Sherlock required his presence when Irene was in the room. 

John had slipped. Snapped and revealed his jealousy without meaning to. It had been impossible to hold in any longer, the ire and petulant words spilling forth from angry lips. Sherlock had appeared bemused, but John saw Irene’s eyes and knew she understood. 

And she had smirked. 

So John left. Trotted down the stairs and onto the sidewalk, letting his restless feet take him where they wanted. 

They took him to a pub. That suited John fine, and he tucked himself into a corner table, nursing a lager and watching rugby on the telly above the bar. Left to his thoughts, only half-focused on the game, he stewed over Irene’s reappearance. 

After Battersea and Sherlock’s withdrawal from him, John had struggled until his realization that Sherlock meant far more to him than simple friendship. Along with respecting Sherlock’s silence and privacy, John began to see how his own jealousy was not acceptable. Sherlock knew who he wanted, and whether or not Irene wanted him back or simply wished to use him for her own means, was not John’s business. His business was protecting Sherlock, and he could do that without spinning everything around his own wishes and wants. 

John took a long drink and sighed. Knowing what he should do didn’t make it any easier to do it. 

As the evening faded into night, John paid his tab, two beer and soggy chips sitting heavy in his stomach. He had nursed both drinks and didn’t feel anything of the alcohol’s effects as he stepped out into the night. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, he wandered toward home, brow furrowed as he tried not to imagine what he might find upon his return. 

It was mid-June, and the weather was warming, though the night still lingered with the faint whispers of the fading spring. John shrugged deeper into his coat and strode quickly down the sidewalk, seeking to warm himself from the slight chill in the air. A surge of comfort and gratitude rose in his chest at the sight of the familiar black door of 221B, and John's pace quickened until he was pushing inside and pausing at the stairs.

The flat was silent and dark, Mrs. Hudson likely gone to bed. Staring up the steps, John wondered what awaited him upstairs. 

Shaking his head, he climbed two at a time, prepared to rush straight to his bedroom if he came upon something he’d rather not see. 

But when he stepped into the sitting room, it was empty, the fire still flickering in the grate. Brow furrowed, John crossed the room to flick off the electric heat, pausing as he listened to the silence of the flat. He heard nothing but his own breathing and faint creaks as the building settled. 

His feet drew him toward the hall, inexorable, down to where Sherlock’s bedroom door stood cracked open. Unable to resist the urge, John poked his head inside, praying he wouldn’t find Sherlock and Irene tangled together beneath the sheets. 

The bed was empty and neatly made, the blanket unruffled. John swallowed, scanned the room, and retreated upstairs to his bedroom. 

As he prepared for sleep, shucking off his clothes until only his pants remained, John tried not to let his mind spin into a mess of what-ifs. While he was relieved that he hadn’t stumbled in on some lurid, erotic scene, he was left with unanswerable questions. If Irene and Sherlock weren’t in the flat, then where were they? Had they been taken? Had they gone together? And, if so, had it been against Sherlock’s will?

There was no way of knowing, John realized as he slid into bed. Rolling onto his back, he frowned up at the dark ceiling and tried not to get too carried away. Somewhere between wondering if Sherlock had gone to shack up with Irene or if he was dead in a ditch somewhere, John drifted off. 

* * *

The door of his bedroom flying open and the light flicking on woke him. John startled and bolted upright, his body responding to the sudden breach by dumping a surge of adrenaline into his veins. Hissing a loud breath through his teeth, John fumbled for the gun in his bedside table, pausing when he realized the intruder was Sherlock.

“What—” he glanced at his watch, saw it was just past midnight, and frowned at the man panting in his doorway. “Sherlock, what the fuck? Where have you been?

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock snapped, advancing on the bed. John narrowed his eyes as anger rolled through him, buoyed on an adrenaline cocktail. Sherlock smelled of cigarettes and cold air from outside. 

“Excuse me? What do you—”

“I said _shut up,”_ Sherlock growled, and John subsided with a click of teeth. Sherlock kept on advancing, stopping only when his shins hit the bed frame, and he was standing over John. Frowning up at him, John pursed his lips. 

“You’ve got about five seconds to explain yourself before I toss you down the stairs,” he threatened, in no mood to play whatever game Sherlock was playing. 

Sherlock’s pupils dilated in an unexpected response, and he launched into a tangent that had John’s eyes widening.

“John, I am a ridiculous man,” he began, cutting John off when he opened his mouth to agree. “No, shut up. Shut up, _shut up._ If you speak, I’ll falter, and I need you to _shut up.”_ John closed his mouth again, and Sherlock forged on. “I am a ridiculous man, and I know you know that, and yet, you stay. You remain, John, ever constant, steady, reliable. You are kind and solid and the bravest man I’ve ever known. John. _John.”_ Sherlock reached out and bracketed John’s upturned face between his hands. To John’s surprise, they were shaking. He blinked as Sherlock looked him in the eye and repeated himself, “John, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship.” He breathed a stuttering little sigh. Vulnerability flashed through his eyes. “And, despite all my flaws, my logic and cold, hard reasoning, I find myself hopelessly, _inexplicably,_ in love with you.”

John’s mouth opened, his eyes widening. If not for Sherlock’s hands on his face, holding him in place, he might have tipped backwards. Instead, closing his mouth and wetting his lips, John blinked. He swallowed slowly and cleared his throat, waiting until he trusted himself to speak. Sherlock watched his face with unblinking eyes, his expression growing closer and closer to desperate with every passing second that John remained silent. 

“John?” he prompted, fingers tightening. John coughed and managed a soft wheeze when he finally spoke.

“Really?” At Sherlock’s frown, he added, “You’re not having me on, are you?”

Sherlock looked affronted. “No, John. Don’t be an idiot,” he snapped. “How could you think I would—” the rest of his sentence disappeared into John’s mouth as John grabbed the front of Sherlock’s jacket and hauled him down, pressing his lips hard to Sherlock’s. He meant it to be quick and chaste, but John couldn’t resist nipping Sherlock’s bottom lip, something he’d ached to do for months now.

“You berk,” he breathed against his mouth, tugging at the jacket in his grasp until Sherlock was forced to drop one knee onto the mattress to avoid sprawling. “You mad, mad bastard.” He kissed him again, fingers digging into expensive fabric. John tilted his head back just enough to see Sherlock’s expression. He looked dazed, his pupils blown wide, and his lashes fluttering as he blinked repeatedly. 

“I—does that… do you—” Sherlock’s coherency seemed to have fled. John grinned, the expression shifting into a smirk as he pulled Sherlock down to the mattress and kissed him until he made soft, frantic noises deep in his throat.

“‘Course,” John said, finally coming up for air, his words strained by lack of oxygen. “Of course I love you. _Of course.”_ He smiled as Sherlock’s bemusement faded into stunned elation. The sight of Sherlock’s answering smile was too much to resist. John pushed Sherlock onto his back, rising to lean over him, their mouths coming together in a hungry gasp. 

Sherlock’s lips were softer than he’d expected, yielding beneath his tongue when John licked along the seam. Sherlock softened beneath him, his legs parting as his lips opened, letting John settle between his thighs as he licked into Sherlock's mouth. John tasted his breath, his tongue and the smooth inside of his cheek, groaning when Sherlock gripped his legs tight on either side of John’s waist. 

“What happened to Irene?” John managed to ask, reluctantly pulling back to look down into Sherlock’s eyes, glimmering in the dark. “Also, why do you smell like cigarettes?” 

“I smoked one outside. For my nerves.” Shaking his head, Sherlock grabbed for John, pawing at his bare chest with restless hands that seemed to be everywhere at once, stroking, touching, caressing, reverent. “Later, later,” he murmured, the words dying into a whine when John surged back upon him with a growl, catching Sherlock’s upper lip with his teeth. 

“Mm, later sounds good,” John breathed, feeling his eyelids lower as lust rippled through him. The sensation lit his body up like an out-of-control fire, and it wasn’t long before other parts of him were responding to the warm, pliant press of Sherlock beneath him. Already breathless, licking eagerly into Sherlock’s mouth, John rolled his hips in a little rut, and Sherlock groaned beneath him. His own hips lifted, bony but fitting well with John’s own dips and curves, the two of them finding a rhythm together as John hardened in his pants. Sherlock sighed and whispered adoration against John’s lips. It was an unexpected happening that made John’s head spin as he tried to come to terms with the sudden change to their dynamic. 

John groaned at the pressure on his erection, breaking the kiss to fumble for his pants. Sherlock chased John’s lips as he leaned back, hooking a demanding hand around John’s nape. He captured John's mouth again, eagerly reaching down to push John’s hand away and brush the hem of John's pants. His fingers found the head of John's cock, stroking over hot skin through soft pants, John tilting his head back to gasp in stunned fervour. 

“Sherlock,” he hissed between his teeth. His voice dropped into a long, low moan when Sherlock cupped John’s bollocks through fabric rapidly dampening with precum, fingers stroking over the stiff shaft of his erection. “Yeah, oh, god, _yeah.”_ He shoved at his pants, desperate to remove them, to feel Sherlock’s touch on his bare skin. “More, more. Fuck, _Sherlock, please.”_

Sherlock made a soft, needy sound, and they grabbed at one another, shedding bottoms. Neither bothered with their shirts. John barely paused to throw Sherlock’s jacket onto the floor before he was on him, pressing him back onto the mattress, lips fastened over the flexed tendon of Sherlock’s neck. Trembling in response, Sherlock wound his arms around John’s torso, tugging him in close, their hips slotting together with a shared groan. 

Their mouths met, both of them turned loose with lust and want, high on biochemical bliss from shared confession. 

“John, I—I need...” Sherlock stammered out, shaking his head as his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He looked overwhelmed, wrecked before they’d even begun, and John stopped his restless rutting to pull himself back to coherent awareness. It was a struggle, his brain alight with the driving need to fuck and kiss and touch, but he took Sherlock’s face between his hands and pressed his lips gently to his forehead. 

“Tell me, love,” John breathed, nuzzling into sweaty curls. “Tell me what you need. I’ll do anything, whatever you need.” 

Sherlock’s exhale rushed out, brushing John’s parted lips. It bled into a soft whine, and Sherlock rolled his forehead against John’s, whispering, “You, I want _you.”_ At John’s groan, he nudged his nose along the edge of John’s jaw. “Touch me, John.” 

“Oh, god, yeah,” John gasped, reaching between them to find Sherlock’s leaking cock, giving a long pull from root to tip, spreading precum over the rigid length of him. Sherlock’s hips bucked upward in response, back arching with the force of his reaction. John kissed him back down to the mattress with his tongue sliding into Sherlock’s mouth, moving to the same sleek rhythm of his hand. “Look at you,” he murmured, rolling his thumb over the slit and making Sherlock shiver. “God, Sherlock, you’re stunning.” He shook his head and kissed him again, deeper, stroking with one hand and kneading Sherlock’s arse with the other. 

When Sherlock’s fingers found John’s erection, it felt like an electric shock, John groaning as he first stiffened, then melted into Sherlock’s tentative touch. 

“Mm, touch me, yeah. That's perfect, just like that, love,” John rasped, drinking down Sherlock’s quickening sighs. Propping himself up on one arm, John tilted his head to look between them, watching Sherlock’s hand on him and his own grip on Sherlock. The sight made his knees weak, and John huffed a loud, desperate gasp, watching precum bead at the tip of his cock, only to be captured and smeared over the rim by Sherlock’s long, clever fingers. “Fuck, _fuck,_ Sherlock…” 

Sherlock made incoherent little noises, wrapping a hand around John’s nape to pull him down again. With his face pressed into John’s neck, his sounds shifted into near-growls of need, hips rolling, fucking messily into John’s pumping fist. “Ah, John... _John!”_

“Yeah, baby, yeah,” John babbled back, quickening his pace. He buried the fingers of his free hand in Sherlock’s hair, the soft curls damp and tangled with sweat, their bodies slick against one another. He felt Sherlock’s lips brush his neck, followed by the drag of his tongue. John groaned deep in his chest, curling over Sherlock, trying to bring him closer, trying to force him right into the spaces between his ribs, where John's heart raced and thundered. He briefly considered slowing down, taking things further, but the aching want and built-up yearning from months of first denying his feelings, then trying to keep them under control, were flooding free. Finally able to touch Sherlock the way he’d wanted for so long, John found himself unable to stop. 

Sherlock’s ragged, wanton sounds made it impossible to think straight, and John gave himself over to instinct. With Sherlock’s nails digging into the skin of his nape, and John’s fingers gripping slick curls, they stroked and coaxed one another to the brink. 

John felt Sherlock’s climax before it happened, the body pressed beneath his tightening, shivering, going taut with tension. Sherlock’s mouth latched onto John’s neck, and he came with a muffled shout of _John_ , spurting and spilling between them. His release slicked the trembling strokes of his hand until John tipped over after him. His own orgasm felt like being shot all over again. It was all of the shocked, stunned sensations of coming apart minus the agony, and he collapsed, wheezing, on top of Sherlock. 

With their mixed releases cooling on Sherlock’s heaving stomach, they clung to one another as they both came down. Sherlock was still shuddering with aftershocks when John finally opened his eyes, and he rolled to the side, just far enough to stop crushing him into the mattress. 

“Fuck,” he said weakly, blinking at Sherlock with hazy eyes. His body felt lax, turned loose by the sheer force of his climax. “That was…” John shook his head, dazed, a soppy little smile curving his lips. Sherlock blinked back at him, a small smile of his own tilting his lips upward. Unable to resist, John tilted down and kissed him, feeling that smile against his mouth. 

Somehow, that made it all the more real, and he settled in to kiss Sherlock until they both were breathless, and sleep pulled them under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borrowed some of Sherlock's dialogue from his wedding speech in _Sign of Three,_ because come on, that was sweet af, and we all know that was definitely a love confession.


	13. Settled

Sherlock’s eyes opened to warm breath on his neck and the spill of sunlight over his bare legs. Somewhere in the night, he had woken, stripped off his shirt, and faded back into sleep with John’s arms tight around him. Now, he lay sprawled over the other man's chest, John’s face tucked beneath his chin, his short hair tickling the underside of Sherlock’s jaw. When Sherlock shifted, John mumbled quietly in his sleep, one arm slung loosely over Sherlock’s lower back before he stilled again. 

Listening to the soft cadence of John’s breathing, the steady beat of his heart as it pulsed into Sherlock’s body where their chests pressed together, Sherlock felt settled. For the first time in months, possibly the first time in his life, things felt right-side-up. And, despite all the chaos of the past several months, all the miscommunication, betrayal, failure, Sherlock, in some strange way, had Irene Adler to thank for this perfect moment of bliss. 

With his eyes fixed on a silver strand in John’s hair, Sherlock heard Irene’s last words: _I won’t even last six months._ The memory stirred up a mix of complicated feelings, part triumph, part disdain, and partly something that felt almost like guilt. Threading his fingers into the soft hair at the nape of John’s neck, Sherlock frowned. The act of carding through the strands soothed him, helping his mind clear as he tried to track down the source of such an emotion. John snuffling in his sleep against Sherlock’s neck was a welcomed distraction. 

Thanks to Irene, Sherlock now understood the power of sentiment, the little actions, and the subtleties in things unsaid. Without her, Sherlock never would have realized John was expressing his love for months now, in every way but out loud. And, through his own acceptance of kindness, Sherlock had learned something about himself, as well: his own capacity for caring. For sentiment. The potential of both filled him with an unfamiliar unease, and he wondered if this was how others felt. Unbalanced, alarmed at their own vulnerability.

Sherlock shuddered, wondering what kind of man he might become without John’s steadfast presence and surety. If he had missed the clues, Sherlock would be waking up alone right now, still pining after the man who slept one floor above him. 

Abstractly, he owed his present happiness to Irene, as much as Sherlock hated the idea of owing the dominatrix anything. But, as John snuggled closer and sleepily pressed his warm lips to Sherlock’s throat, he realized it didn’t matter. Without Irene, the facts were that he would not have come to understand his own heart and learned that Moriarty was still out there. Plotting, planning, intervening and spreading his chaos wherever possible. 

With Irene reduced to nothing more than an echo of her former glory, she might prove an ally. Moriarty might not know how thoroughly she had been defeated, and might not care, and Sherlock could always use an advantage. 

His mind whirred, fully awake now, sorting through data and working toward a plan. Assuming Mycroft had let Irene go as Sherlock suggested, he would need to determine her whereabouts. Once he had tracked her down, he could help her disappear. And, if and when Sherlock needed the same, she could help him succeed.

Already sinking into his mind, Sherlock nearly missed it when John stirred fully, his lashes tickling against Sherlock’s neck as his eyes blinked open. He felt John’s full-body stretch, the brush of his lips when he yawned, and the tantalizing sensation of hard flesh against his hip. 

“Morning,” John mumbled, his voice rasping with sleep as Sherlock shifted onto his elbows to look down at him.

“Hello,” he said in a soft voice before finding himself frozen in place from John’s eyes. They were half-open and hazy with still-fading sleep, and the sight of them made Sherlock’s breath catch in his throat. 

John smiled, the expression warm and inviting, and Sherlock was pulled entirely out of his mind with one hard tug. Letting his swirling thoughts dissipate and fade into the background for the moment, busying himself with kissing John awake, body stiffening and rising in response to John’s soft hum of pleasure. 

Sherlock would determine how to find Irene later. For now, he had much more important business to attend to, letting himself be rolled onto his back by an eager John, who was suddenly wide awake.

* * *

Tracking down Irene Adler, even without the protection of her secrets, proved harder than Sherlock anticipated. Hacking into her Twitter and tracking the IP address provided little in the way of clarity, and Sherlock’s Homeless Network was stumped. After a week of searching, paying bribes for information and scouring the depths of the internet for hints, Sherlock was forced to accept that Irene had left England. 

He was to concede and accept that his effort must count for something when one of his contacts waved him aside when he was out on another case to tell him they had found the next best thing. Not Irene Adler, but her personal assistant and live-in partner, Kate. 

The lead proved lucrative, and, with John back in Dublin for several days, Sherlock seized his opportunity. He spent the flight to India fidgeting with his armrest, watching clouds swirl past the window. He was too keyed up to sleep, going over and over his plan from takeoff to touchdown, praying nothing would go wrong. Once, Sherlock had thought himself infallible, only to be proven wrong by Irene herself. Yes, he had won in the end, but it wouldn’t do to become overconfident. 

John had no idea of his plans, and Sherlock hated to think of what would happen if he didn’t return. John would never know what happened, and Sherlock squirmed with a sudden flood of guilt, making his seatmate shoot him a reproachful look. Stilling, he subsided into a pensive silence, knowing it was far too late to go back on the plan. 

By the time he stepped out into the hot air of India, Sherlock’s mind was settled. Sneaking over the border into Pakistan was more straightforward than anticipated. Travelling to Karachi was accomplished without encountering any trouble he couldn’t handle.

Several hours later, after rescuing The Woman from a would-be execution, Sherlock burrowed beneath the covers in a small bed at a nondescript little inn and closed his eyes. 

He was exhausted, still smelling the metallic tang of blood and fear in his nose despite the three baths he had taken. His skin was rubbed raw, and he ached for John’s presence, his warm hands and steady manner always a soothing balm when Sherlock needed it most. He comforted himself with the reminder that even if he were back in London, John wouldn’t be back from Dublin for another three days. He ignored the thought that at least he’d be able to sleep in sheets that smelled like the two of them, and shoved a pillow over his head until he drifted into a fretful doze. 

* * *

A few months later, John came up the stairs with damp hair, the shoulders of his coat wet from the rain. He had clearly been outside before ducking into Speedy’s, the smell of fresh-baked bread clinging to his rain-soaked skin when he entered the kitchen. Sherlock kept his focus on his microscope's eyepiece, choosing to let John approach with whatever it was he felt needed to be said. 

When John stopped expectantly beside the table, Sherlock raised his head and met his nervous gaze. “What is it?” he asked, eyebrows drifting upward. John stared at him before dropping his eyes and clearing his throat. 

“Ah, it’s… well, it’s about Irene Adler.” He looked up again and hesitated, his uncertainty clear. 

“Yes?” 

John seemed to be struggling, and Sherlock took pity on him, reaching out to catch John’s hands and draw him closer. Standing over him, brow furrowed, John breathed out a heavy sigh and said, “She’s dead.” 

Sherlock stiffened, his mind and pulse racing as he wondered how to respond. The admission was on the tip of his tongue, the explanation ready, but something held it back, trapped it behind his throat. Instead of telling John about Karachi, about the way the blood had stained the lifelines of his hands, Sherlock nodded. 

“I had assumed.” Hesitant, he slipped his phone from his pocket and showed John the last text from Irene’s number: _Goodbye, Mr. Holmes._

“Right,” John replied, frowning slightly. “I, er… Mycroft told me. We met downstairs.” He glanced away, lips pursed. “He… he wanted to…” John seemed to struggle with the words, and Sherlock sighed.

“He wanted you to lie,” he surmised, knowing his brother’s games well enough by now. “What was the party line?”

John swallowed, his throat bobbing with the motion. “Witness protection,” he replied, voice soft, “in America.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upward.

“Doesn’t seem a very likely possibility, given the way those American agents were so keen to get a hold of that phone.” John looked chagrined, and Sherlock’s smile softened. “You planned to go along with it, Mycroft's story. Didn't you?” Squeezing John’s hands, he added, “I’m not made of glass, never mind what Mycroft thinks.” John’s expression shifted toward guilt.

“I know,” he breathed, looking so miserable that Sherlock couldn’t resist the urge to stroke his fingers over John’s palms. 

“And I know that you know that, which is why you told me the truth.” John nodded before seeming to shake off the guilt. He had, after all, done what was right. His shoulders straightened, and Sherlock felt a deep flicker of love for the steady man. As if catching the emotion in Sherlock’s face, John tugged gently at Sherlock’s hands. Rising to his feet, Sherlock let himself be pulled into John’s warm body, his grip slipping from Sherlock’s hands to his waist. 

“You okay?” he asked in a low voice, lips brushing over Sherlock’s jaw. Melting into the contact, Sherlock turned his head and pressed his nose into John’s hair. Sometimes, he could still smell the metallic tang of blood, the hazy desert air. The scent of John, shampoo, wool and pine, pushed the memories back.

“Yes,” he replied, feeling John smile against his neck. “I am perfectly alright.” The rest of the sentence, though silent, was heard by both.

_Now that I have you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, folks! 
> 
> I started this story with a specific premise in mind: to bring an amusing twist to what was a rather frustrating episode for me. I had originally planned to end this fic with John being helpless against the seductive power of Sheetlock, resulting in some glorious smut. I also meant for this to be a very chill story where I didn't put my usual obsessive-focus into every word, sentence, and scene. Somewhere along the way, I found myself telling the whole episode over, still trying to maintain that laid-back style. In trying not to take myself so seriously as a writer, I ended up absolutely annoyed with this story and am glad to be finished with it. To those who have enjoyed it, love and many big, squishy cuddles from Simplyclockwork. To those who felt as I did, that this wasn't my best work, I'm right there with ya, but hey, it's done now, so yay!
> 
> Anyyywaayyysss, I'm going to stop rambling in the notes and go work on something else now. See y'all soon on my next project! As always, thanks for being wonderful and reading my work ♥️

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Somebody Loves You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28955100) by [kettykika78](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kettykika78/pseuds/kettykika78)




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